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STORY TELLING TIME 


COMPILED BY 

FRANCES WELD DANIELSON 

«i 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

Clara E. Atwood F. Liley Young 

Nana French Bickford 



THE PILGRIM PRESS 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 


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4 


COPYRIGHT, 1912 

BY LUTHER H. CARY 

Published, October, 1912 



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THB ‘PLIMPTON ‘PRBSS 
[w • D • o] 

NORWOOD-MASS • U • S« A 


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Q. Cl. A ii 2 0 9 7 4 




CONTENTS 


BY AN 

OPEN FIRE 

PAGE 

The Firelight Hour 

. . Nancy Byrd Turner . . . . 

.. 3 

Tony Bear at the Peacock 


House 

. .Anne Schutze 

.. 5 

When Mother’s Gone Away 

. Hannah G. Fernald . . . . 

.. 11 

Philip’s Flour Barrel 

. . Elizabeth Colson 

, . 13 

She Introduced Herself . . . 

. .Edith M. Thomas 

, . 17 

A Bold Fisherman 

. . Phila Butler Bowman . . 

18 

The Child Who Forgot 

to 


Wash His Face 

. . Carolyn Sherwin Bailey . 

20 

These Windy Days 

. . Frances Sykes 

. 23 

A Party 

. . Hannah G. Fernald 

. 24 

Santa Claus at the Child 


Factory 

Frances Weld Danielson 

. 26 

Friends 

. .Alice Van Leer Carrick . 

, . 31 

The Indian Game 

..Edith Gilman Brewster. 

.. 32 

The Soldier Boy 

. . Estelle Robinson 

33 

Muinwa the Rain Fairy . . . 

. . Hope Daring 

.. 36 

A Race 

. .Edna A. Foster 

. . 39 

Kitty Billy’s Hunting Day . 

. .Lillian Manker Allen . . , 

, . 40 

How It Came About 

. . Nancy Byrd Turner . . . . 

. . 43 

Singing 

. .Hannah G. Fernald . . . . 

. . 44 

The Eyes of the King 

. . Carolyn Sherwin Bailey 

. . 45 

Time’s Box 

. .Alice Van Leer Carrick . 

. . 49 

The Wood Folk 

. . Nancy Byrd Turner 

.. 50 


V 


VI 


CONTENTS 


The King and the Country 

Girl Frances Weld Danielson . 51 

In Grandma’s Kitchen Hannah G. Fernald 54 


UNDER A SHADY TREE 


When Tastes Differ 

.Nancy Byrd Turner . . . . 

. 57 

Bobby Squirrel’s Busy Day . 

. Carolyn Sherwin Bailey . 

. 58 

The Party Call 

Alice Van Leer Carrick . 

. 61 

The Little Old Man and His 


Gold 

.Phila Butler Bowman . . . 

. 63 

Rodney’s White Gloves .... 

. Louise M. Oglevee 

. 67 

The Day 

.Edna A. Foster 

. 69 

The City Garden 

. Hannah G. Fernald . . . . 

. 70 

Cloud Curtains 

. Bertha E. Bush 

. 72 

About a Water Party 

.Blanche Elizabeth Wade . 

. 73 

An Easter Surprise 

, Louise M. Oglevee 

. 76 

The Cure 

.Emily Rose Burt 

. 80 

The Fairy in the Apple Or- 
chard 

.Edna A. Foster 

. 82 

The King’s Page 

.Frances Weld Danielson 

. 85 

Polly’s Doll 

.Annie Dodge Tuttle 

. 87 

White Caps 

.Elsie Crane Porter 

. 88 

A Fearsome Fancy 

. Nancy Byrd T urner .... 

. 89 

A Legend of the Goldenrod . 

. Frances J. Delano 

. 92 

Her Answer 

. Sydney Day re 

. 95 

Wading 

.Emily Rose Burt 

. 96 

An Errand Knight 

.Blanche Elizabeth Wade . 

. 97 

The Pearl 

. Carolyn Sherwin Bailey . 

. 100 

The Waking of the Flowers. 

. Phila Butler Bowman . . 

. 102 

The Wind 

.Edna A. Foster 

. 104 

The Little Bird in the Birch- 



Tree 

.Emily Rose Burt 

. 105 


CONTENTS 


vii 


THE HOUR BEFORE BEDTIME 


The Bedtime Story 

. . Robert Seaver 

111 

Candle Time 

, . Anne Schutze 

113 

The Disobedient Ducklings . 

. .Frances Sykes 

114 

The Indian Legend of the 


Water Lily 

. .Hope Daring 

117 

The Train Whistle^ 

. .Alice M. Watts 

120 

The Little Book People . . . 

. .Edna A. Foster 

121 

Wheel Tracks 

. .Emily Rose Burt 

123 

The Little Brown Lady . . . , 

, .Phila Butler Bowman .... 

124 

The King of the Forest . . . , 

. .Frances Weld Danielson . 

129 

Turn About 

. .Elizabeth Thornton Turner 

132 

The Visitor 

, . Anne Schutze 

133 

The King’s Jewel 

. .Carolyn Sherwin Bailey . . 

135 

Hats Off 

. .Nettie Joy Allen 

138 

The Slumber Fog 

. .Miriam Clark Potter .... 

140 

Mary’s Letter 

. .Blanche Elizabeth Wade . . 

141 

When Ned Visited His 
Grandmother 

. . Marion Wathen 

142 

The Child in Spring 

. .Emily Rose Burt 

148 

At Candle-light 

. .Annie Willis McCullough 

149 

The Invalid’s Complaint . . 

. .Elizabeth Thornton Turner 

150 

Little Gretchen’s Lily 

. .Frances Weld Danielson . 

152 

Robert’s Surprise 

. .Annie Louise Berray 

156 

Why 

. .Annie Willis McCullough. 

158 

A Pleasant Country 

. . Elizabeth Lincoln Gould . . 

159 

The Crown 

. . Carolyn Sherwin Bailey . . 

160 

The Sleep Faces 

. .Phila Butler Bowman .... 

164 

The Moon 

. .Marion Mallette Thornton 

165 

The Voices Bennie Heard . 

. .Frances Weld Danielson. . 

166 

At Bedtime 

. .Elizabeth Thornton Turner 

170 




















ILLUSTRATIONS 


“See how tall I am,” said dear, wee, baby Tony Bear 


Cover inset 

A stitch in time saves nine Frontispiece 

“What do you fear?” asked they Facing page 8 

I listen well, as Indians do 32 ^ 

“Look at Bobby Squirrel,” said the bobtailed rabbit 58 v 

Polly sent for Doctor Will 86 

Miles we march along the hall 112 ^ 

So the little fat pig followed on behind 144 ^ 


























































































































































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By an Open Fire 



THE FIRELIGHT HOUR 


Q UICK tears are on the window-pane, 
A noisy wind that storms in vain 
Against a heedless sky. Heigho, 
Wet weather’s here again! 

Hurry and heap the wood-box higher; 
Throw on a log, for dark creeps nigher; 
Draw big arm chair and little stool 
Before the rosy fire. 

The popcorn dances in the heat, 

The rows of apples at our feet 
Turn toasted cheeks against the blaze, 
Juicy and warm and sweet. 

This is the time when tales come true, 
When fairy folk and sprites are due, 

And knights and princes ride abroad 
Just as they used to do, — 

Till faint in every corner stand 
Dim visitors, a shadowy band. 

Look! where the bureau loomed before, 
Robin Hood, hat in hand ! 


4 STORY TELLING TIME 

The low flame flutters like an elf, 

The clock croons on the mantel shelf, 
Outside the chill wind shakes the doors, 
Complaining to itself. 

Almost asleep — why, Nodding Head! 
Too far the path of legends led. 

Your heart had reached the bourne o’ 
dreams. 

Right about face for bed! 

Nancy Byrd Turner 


TONY BEAR AT THE 
PEACOCK HOUSE 

S EE how tall I am,” said dear, wee, 
baby Tony Bear, as he stood on his 
hind feet by the Bear Tree, and 
made a mark with claw and paw as high as 
he could reach. 

All the bears in the wood go to the Bear 
Tree to show how tall they are. The mark 
Tony Bear made was the very lowest on the 
tree, but he was the very smallest bear in all 
the wood. 

“Yes,” said Mamma Bear, “you will soon 
be a big bear.” 

“I am a big bear now, and I wish to find 
a bee-tree, and have seven pawfuls of honey 
for my tea.” 

“Oh, no, no!” said Mamma Bear, “the 
bees would sting you. Stay and play in our 
wood till you are big and wise.” 

Furry Tony Bear stood on his tiptoes, and 
stretched his right paw very high on the 
Bear Tree, and said, “See! I am big and wise, 
and I wish to get honey.” 


6 STORY TELLING TIME 

“Dear, wee Tony Bear,” said Mamma 
Bear, “a bear must be brave before he can 
go alone to the deep woods.” 

Tony Bear hung his head. “I’m some 
brave,” he said, “but it is dark at night in 
our tree. My bed is too high on the big root 
and there might be a boy or girl hiding 
there.” 

“Silly, darling, furry Tony Bear, man 
lives miles from here, and does not come in 
the dark.” 

Tony Bear did not look kind, and he shut 
his little eyes up tight and said, “It is day. 
I’m all brave now. I’m going to get honey 
this very minute.” 

Naughty Tony Bear ran out of the wood 
on his soft padded feet. He ran through the 
wood till he came to a great forest. 

“Where are you going, Baby Bear?” 
asked the birds. 

“For wild honey,” said Tony Bear. 

“Sweet, sweet, sweet!” sang the birds loud 
and high, and the bees lay still in the flowers 
till Tony Bear passed. Not a bee did he see. 

He ran and he ran and he ran and he ran 
and he ran and he ran, and not a bee-tree 
did he find. At last he sat right down flat 


TONY BEAR AT PEACOCK HOUSE 7 

on the ground. He saw that dusk had come. 

“Oh, dear!” said Tony Bear, “I want to 
be in my home.” But he was too tired to 
run any more. 

“Wah! Wahl Wahl” cried Tony Bear. 

“Be quiet!” said a gruff voice, and a wise 
old Grizzly came by. “You sound like a 
calf instead of a brave bear. You are lost. 
Stop howling — it does no good. Stay at 
the Peacock House till morning, then go 
home and wait till you are brave.” 

Poor wee, baby Tony Bear did not cry 
any more. He got up on his tired, sore feet. 
Far off he saw a little white and green lat- 
ticed house. 

“I’ll try to be brave,” he said, and limped 
along the dark wood path toward the Pea- 
cock House. 

By and by he came to the queer little 
latticed green and white Peacock House, 
and scratched at the door. There was — 
oh, dear! — what a noise! Tony Bear grew 
cold with fear, but he did not run away. 
He pushed the door open, and there stood 
all the screaming peacocks in a row. 

Said the eldest peacock, “Who are you? 
What do you wish?” 


8 STORY TELLING TIME 

“Oh,” said Tony Bear, “may I stay till 
morning? I will do all that you say.” 

“Do you eat peacocks?” asked the eldest 
peacock. 

“Never,” said Tony Bear. 

“Are you good? ’’asked the eldest peacock. 

“Y-e-e-s,” said Tony Bear, “some good.” 

“Are you wise?” 

“Not very,” said Tony Bear, 

“Are you brave?” 

“No,” said Tony Bear, and he looked so 
sweet and dear that all the peacocks looked 
less proud. 

“What do you fear?” asked they. 

“I’m afraid of the dark. I’m afraid to go 
to bed. I’m afraid there’s a boy hiding 
there.” 

“The very idea!” laughed all the pea- 
cocks, and they made Tony Bear sit down 
on the clean straw, and gave him sweet 
yellow corn to eat, and they stood in a circle 
around him, and polished their drooping 
feathers. 

How good that corn did taste! By and 
by the Dark came. All the peacocks went 
to bed. By and by the dark, dark Dark 
came. 



Photograph by Jane Dudley 


6 C 


FEAR? 


? 5 


THEY 




WHAT 


D O 


YOU 


ASKED 













































































































TONY BEAR AT PEACOCK HOUSE 9 

“Sniff, sniff!" heard Tony Bear at the 
door. ‘ ‘ Scratch, scratch I" and open came 
the door. There stood a great fox in the 
moonlight. Oh, how Tony Bear’s heart did 
beat! How he did wish he was at home! 

“I will be brave,” he said, and ran at the 
fox, and hugged him tight. 

“ Yelp! Yelp!" cried the fox, and ran away, 
and Tony Bear told the screaming peacocks 
all about it, and fell asleep. 

When he opened his eyes, it was morning 
and his feet were not lame. 

“Thank you all. I have had a lovely 
time and now I must go,” he said, and the 
peacocks stood in a row in the sun to bid 
him farewell. 

“Here is my most beautiful feather for 
you,” said the eldest peacock. “Hang it 
over your bed. It will watch with its wise 
eyes, and you need not be afraid.” And 
every peacock gave him a beautiful feather. 

“Good-bye,” said Tony Bear. 

“Look!” said the eldest peacock, and all 
the peacocks spread their tails for Tony Bear, 
and he was dazzled by the splendor. There 
they stood in the sun till Tony Bear was out 
of sight, and he looked back many times. 


10 STORY TELLING TIME 

When Tony Bear came to his home he 
said, “ I am not very big, and not at all wise, 
but, Mamma Bear, I wish to be brave. I 
will not go away any more till I am brave,” 
and he told Mamma Bear all about it. 

“You were brave,” said Mamma Bear, 
“and I will teach you to find a bee-tree this 
very day,” and she did. 

How good that honey was! Tony Bear 
sat on the ground and ate all he wanted. 
They came home in the dark, dark Dark. 

“I’ll take you to bed now,” said Mamma 
Bear. 

“No,” said Tony Bear bravely, “I will go 
alone.” 

He went to the hollow tree, and climbed 
on to his bed of leaves over which the pea- 
cock feathers were watching, and in one 
minute dear, wee, baby, furry Tony Bear was 
fast asleep. 


Anne SchOtze 


WHEN MOTHER’S GONE 
AWAY 


M OTHER’S gone away! 

I shouldn’t think that mother 
would, 

Although I promised I’d be good. 

I said I’d be contented, too, 

But that was all before I knew 
How very hard it is to play, 

When mother’s gone away. 

Molly wouldn’t play. 

She came to spend the afternoon 
And then went home an hour too soon. 
She said that I was cross, but I 
Cannot be happy if I try, 

When mother’s gone away. 

Dolls are cross today. 

Rosa Belle is in disgrace. 

She almost slapped Matilda’s face. 

I’ve got Matilda here with me, 

They’re so unkind to disagree, 

When mother’s gone away. 


> 


' * /’ 

12 STORY TELLING TIME 

She isn’t going to stay. 

She’s coming home right after tea, 

And then she’ll sit and cuddle me. 

The dolls will all be happy then, 
Tomorrow Molly’ll come again. 

And I’ll forget this dreadful day 
When mother went away. 

Hannah G. Fernald 


PHILIP’S FLOUR BARREL 

A True Story 

W HEN Philip was a little boy, he 
lived with his father and mother 
in a house made of logs. The 
house had two windows and one door, and 
Philip’s father built nearly every bit of 
it himself. They lived so far from other 
people that when Philip walked all around 
the log house, looking everywhere, he could 
not see another house. 

Philip’s father plowed and planted great 
fields of wheat. The fields were so big, and 
some of them were so far from the little log 
house, that he had to take his dinner in a 
basket and ride ever so far. 

When the autumn came and the wheat was 
cut down, and sent to a big mill to be made 
into flour, father said it was time to think 
about winter. Mother said they would do 
just as the squirrels did. They would fill 
the cellar with things to eat, and stuff up all 
the cracks so that Jack Frost could not get 


14 STORY TELLING TIME 

in, and then they would not mind how hard 
the wind blew or how much snow fell. 

So father got the big wagon ready, and 
mother made a list of the things father was 
to buy. It was such a long list that it 
covered both sides of a big sheet of paper. 
There were a great many nice things on the 
list — not only flour and sugar, but picture- 
books and games and a paint-box. 

Philip thought he could hardly wait for 
father to get back, but mother said they 
must not expect him very soon, for he would 
have to drive two days to get to the town 
where the stores were. They went to bed 
very early that night, and when they woke 
up in the morning it was snowing, and it 
snowed and snowed all day and all night 
and all the next day. The snow was so deep 
that it covered the windows of the log house, 
and mother had to keep a candle burning 
all day. 

Mother cooked and sewed, and they read 
Philip’s books again and again, and the snow 
became deeper than the house was high. 
They knew that father could not drive 
through such deep snow, and they tried to 
be patient. Mother taught Philip to knit 


philip’s flouk barrel 15 

and to print his name. When she made 
bread and cookies, she would say, “Father 
is sure to come before the flour is all gone,” 
and Philip would say, “ Of course he will.” 

One day, when mother wanted flour, she 
had to reach way down into the barrel, and 
the flour scoop made a great noise scratch- 
ing the wood, for the flour was nearly gone. 
When Philip went to bed that night, he 
asked mother if she had heard the flour 
scoop scratching the wood. 

“Yes,” she said, “and the heavenly Father 
heard it, too. He is taking care of us, you 
will see.” 

In the night the weather changed. It 
grew warmer, and in the morning Philip 
heard the snow dripping and running, as it 
melted away. Then they knew that father 
would come soon, and the light came through 
the tops of the windows, and they were glad, 
for the candles were all gone. 

The snow had been melting for two days, 
and Philip sat knitting and thinking how 
queer it would be to go to bed without 
any supper. Mother was knitting, too, and 
thinking the same thing. Philip thought 
he heard something, and then they both 


16 STORY TELLING TIME 

heard a soft, thudding sound. Mother 
opened the door, and great heaps of wet 
snow fell in on the kitchen floor. She saw 
the wagon standing in the road piled high 
with bundles, and father was digging a path 
to the door. He had a fine, new snow 
shovel, and when he saw mother, he waved 
it as though it were a flag. 

That night they had mush and bacon and 
sweet crackers for supper, and father told 
them all about his journey. Then Philip 
ran and got his printing and his knitting, 
and father was surprised to see how much 
he had learned. 

“And father,” said Philip, “the flour 
scoop told that the flour was all gone, and 
the heavenly Father heard it, and sent the 
warm wind to melt the snow so that you 
could come home.” 

Elizabeth Colson 


SHE INTRODUCED 
HERSELF 


T HE lady talked and mamma talked, 
(It was a long, long call) 

And both forgot the little maid, 
Who never spoke at all. 

She was so good, she sat so still, 

She never stirred a curl. 

At last she introduced herself — 

“I’m mamma’s Little Girl!” 


Edith M. Thomas 



A BOLD FISHERMAN 

O NE day I ran away from home 
And hurried to the brook. 

I had a crooked pin and string 
For fishing-line and hook. 

I might have caught some whales and things 
And had a lovely day. 

Though something, where my heart goes 

thump, 

Kept hurting all the way. 

But when I found the mossy bank, 

Right there a bullfrog sat. 

His eyes bulged out like cannon-balls, 

He swelled up, oh, so fat! 

It seemed as though his very eyes 
Said, “How dared you to come?” 

Before he spoke, in awful tones, — 

“Go home! Go home! Go home!” 

I turned and ran through bush and stones, 
Till all my breath was gone. 

I’d never guessed how long the way, 

How hard to hurry on. 


A BOLD FISHERMAN 


19 


I did not stop till I was safe. 

Where bullfrogs cannot come. 

He’ll never get another chance 
To say to me, “Go home!” 

Phila Butler Bowman 


THE CHILD 

WHO FORGOT TO WASH 
HIS FACE 


HE child forgot, very often, to wash 



his face. There were a number of 


■*- children at his house, all younger 
than he, who had to have their faces washed 
for them, so the mother could not always 
attend to his. He had a fine little wash- 
cloth of his own that his grandmother had 
knitted, but he often forgot to use it, which 
made his grandmother sad. 

This special morning the child ate jam on 
his toast for breakfast. Oh, he was very 
untidy indeed, for there was jam on his 
blouse and on the tip of his nose and on his 
mouth when he finished breakfast! But he 
never remembered to use his wash-cloth, and 
he jumped down from the table and ran 
outdoors to play. 

Just outside the door, on a tree in the 
garden, hung the child’s yellow canary in a 
pretty gilt cage. The bird was very tame. 


FORGOT TO WASH HIS FACE 21 

When the child whistled and put his finger 
in the cage, the yellow canary would light 
on it and sing. But this morning it paid 
not the slightest attention when the child 
called. The yellow canary was taking a 
bath. It had a white saucer full of crystal 
water, and it dipped its little body down in 
and lifted up its head with the drops shin- 
ing on its feathers like diamonds in a gold 
setting. 

So the child went farther on, until he 
came to his pussy cat sitting in the path. 
She nearly always followed the child, run- 
ning after a string and ball which he carried 
in his pocket for her to play with. This 
morning, though, the pussy cat would not 
so much as look at the child. She was very 
busy indeed washing the milk from her 
whiskers with one velvet paw and her little 
velvet tongue. She did not even purr when 
the child stroked her furry back. 

So the child went still farther on Until he 
came to the pond at the end of the garden 
where the ducks lived. His pockets were 
full of bits of bread for the ducks. He often 
tossed their breakfast out into the water, 
and the ducks swam to him and gobbled 


22 STORY TELLING TIME 

up the crumbs in their bills and quacked 
“Thank you.” 

Today, though, the ducks did not seem to 
see their breakfast. Away across at the 
other end of the pond they were dipping 
their green selves down in the water, until all 
the child could see was the tips of their 
pointed tails. Then they lifted themselves 
out of the water and shook a shower of 
drops from their green feathers. The ducks 
were taking their morning baths. 

“ I wonder why no one will play with me,” 
thought the child. 

Then he looked down in the mirror of the 
pond, and he saw that he had not washed 
his face. 

“Why, perhaps it is because I am dirty,” 
he said 

And the child ran home to use his grand- 
mother’s wash-cloth. 

Carolyn Sherwin Bailey 


THESE WINDY DAYS 


I T seems to me I can almost see 
The wind on these windy days. 

It pushes me here, it pushes me there, 
It blows me all sorts of ways. 

It switches my apron, crack-crack-crack! 

It catches my hair ribbon right straight back. 
It seems to me I can almost see 
The wind on these windy days. 

I think it’s fun when I start to run. 

And the wind tries hard to beat. 

It does it, too, with its woo-oo-oohl 
It blows me ’most off my feet. 

It jumps and whistles, and goes and stays, 
It whirls and twists, and laughs and plays. 
Yes, seems to me I can almost see 
The wind on these windy days. 

Frances Sykes 


A PARTY 


I WONDER why those foreign lands are 
all so far away, 

And why the funny children can’t run 
in sometimes to play. 

I often think I’d like to give a party — just 
for boys — 

And ask some little Indians in to help me 
make a noise. 

Some Indians, and an Eskimo, a Turk, a 
South Sea child. 

And mother wants a Japanese — their man- 
ners are so mild. 

I rather think we’d have some fun and play 
some jolly games. 

I wonder could I ever learn their queer, out- 
landish names! 

How much we’d have to talk about! What 
stories they could tell! 

And I would teach them how to play the 
games I like so well. 


A PARTY 25 

We’d have a merry afternoon, and then we’d 
all shake hands, 

And they could run right home to bed in 
their queer foreign lands. 

Hannah G. Fernald 


SANTA CLAUS AT THE 
CHILD FACTORY 


HE fire-alarm rang — one, two, three, 



four. Then there was a roar and 'rush 


and clatter, as the fire-engine tore 
down the street, with horses galloping and 
bell ringing, and after that the wagon with 
the long ladders and the hose. Men and 
boys followed shouting, “Fire! Fire!” The 
air was full of smoke, and yellow flames burst 
out of the windows of a large house. The 
firemen began running up and down the 
ladders, and each time they brought down a 
child. The house seemed full of children — 
big children and little children, tall children 
and short children, fat children and thin 
children, dark children and light children. 
One of the firemen said, “The last fire was 
a stocking factory. This is a child factory.” 

A curious thing about these children was 
that all the girls were dressed in blue checked 
gingham, with their hair in two braids, tied 
together with blue ribbons, and all the boys 


AT THE CHILD FACTORY 27 

wore brown striped suits and brown neckties. 
As they were handed out of the windows 
and taken down the ladders, they seemed 
like bundles of cloth of two kinds. In the 
hurry the girls’ braids usually flew straight 
out, and there you could see a difference. 
Sometimes the blue ribbon tied up long 
yellow braids, and sometimes curly brown 
braids, and sometimes straight black braids. 

No; this was not a child factory, it was a 
Children’s Home — or it had been a Chil- 
dren’s Home. Very soon it would be only 
a pile of ashes. None of the children were 
burned, thanks to the brave firemen, but 
when your home is burned, why, you feel as 
if you might as well be. Some of the chil- 
dren stood crying. Some ran down the road 
as if the fire could chase them, and a very 
little and very fat one cried, “I want my 
supper!” She had no sooner said this than 
all the little ones joined in crying, “I want 
mine! I do, too! I’m hungry!” 

And when, because nobody answered and 
no supper was brought, the cries became 
fewer and fainter, the same very little and 
very fat child started up another cry, “And 
after supper I want to go to bed, I do!” 


28 STORY TELLING TIME 

And then, will you believe it, all the children 
took up the same cry, “We want to go to 
bed! We’re sleepy!” Children who had 
always begged to stay up later forgot about 
that now and cried and sobbed to be taken 
to bed. 

What with the crying, and the snapping of 
the fire, and the crashing down of chimneys, 
and the caving in of windows, and the calls 
of the firemen, nobody noticed a little old 
man who drove up in a big wagon. It was 
the kind of wagon that you ride in when you 
go to picnics. 

“Hullo, there!” he called. 

The children looked up. The youngest 
ones thought he was Santa Claus, he was so 
round and jolly, and his eyes twinkled so, 
and his beard was so long and white. They 
stopped crying for supper and bed. Even 
the very little and very fat child stopped with 
her mouth wide open. 

“All aboard for supper and bed!” the little 
old man called, and he jumped down and 
picked the children up and set them in the 
wagon before they knew what was happening. 
In a second more he was driving off, with 
the very little and very fat child in his lap. 


AT THE CHILD FACTORY 29 


“Are you Santa Claus?” she asked. 

“Oh, ho!” laughed the little old man. 
“On, Donner! On, Blitzen!” and off the 
horses trotted, till they came to a white 
house. 

“Whoa!” cried the little old man. 

A woman came running to the door, as if 
she were expecting them. 

“How many children for supper and 
bed?” the little old man called. 

“Five, and supper’s all ready, and it’s 
chicken broth.” 

“Big ones or little ones?” 

“Big ones, please.” 

“Five big children may stop here,” said 
the little old man. “Sisters and brothers 
and special friends go together.” 

The five children were picked out and then 
the little old man cried, “On, Donner! On, 
Blitzen!” and the horses trotted till they 
came to the next house. 

“How many children wanted here?” he 
called. 

“Two little boys,” answered a sweet-faced 
mother. “And I have two little boys here 
who are waiting supper for them.” 

“Brothers or friends go together,” said 


30 STORY TELLING TIME 

the little old man, and two little half-asleep 
brothers were taken into the house. 

Up the street they went and stopped at 
every house, till not a child was left in the 
wagon but just the very little and very fat 
one. 

“I think I’ll take you myself,” said the 
little old man. 

“Must I wait till Christmas before I have 
the presents?” she asked, for she still thought 
he was Santa Claus. 

“You shall have a stocking full tomorrow 
morning,” laughed the little old man, “and 
maybe I shall keep you till Christmas comes, 
and let you go round with me in my sleigh. 
How would you like that?” 

But there was no answer, for the very 
little and very fat child was fast asleep. 

Frances Weld Danielson 


FRIENDS 


K ITTY’S my very best friend, did you 
know? 

I put my arm round her and hug 
her hard, so! 

And we talk 
And we talk 
As we walk to and fro. 

Kitty, she puts her arm round me, and then 
She loves me hard, too, and she tells me so 
when 

We just talk 
And just talk 
As we walk back again. 

Alice Van Leer Carrick 


THE INDIAN GAME 


W HEN I put feathers on my head 
And wear my tan suit fringed 
with red, 

I’m not a boy then, but instead 
An Indian with a stealthy tread. 

Inside I have to fix up too. 

I listen well, as Indians do, 

I make my eyes see clear and true. 

And never ask what, where, or who. 

It is the best game that I play. 

For often will my mother say. 

When things have bothered her some way, 
“Now, be an Indian to-day!” 

Edith Gilman Brewster 







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THE SOLDIER BOY 


O NCE upon a time, in the mountains 
of sunny California, there lived a 
boy, William Lee, so big and so 
brave that they called him the Soldier Boy. 
He was only six years old. He had deep 
blue eyes with black eyelashes, a splendid 
head on a pair of strong shoulders, and a 
heart as big and true as a heart could be in 
so young a body. 

James Parsons, fancier of “dogs and cats, 
white rabbits and rats,” who loved manly 
boys almost as much as he loved his dog 
Ben, made Billy a wooden sword and dagger. 
After that every day, if you had walked in 
the pine grove where Billy lived in a rustic 
log cabin, you might have seen him strutting 
about and giving marching orders to himself 
as if he were a whole army. 

One glorious autumn day some little girls, 
recently come from the city, were playing 
in the shady grove. They were having a 
most beautiful time swinging from the low- 


34 STORY TELLING TIME 

hanging branches of a pine sapling. Along 
came a thoughtless, though kind-hearted 
farmer boy. Seeing their fun, he jumped 
and pulled down the top of the tree till the 
sapling was bent like a bow. The children 
shouted for joy, and each caught hold of a 
new limb — and the farmer boy walked on. 

Their weight kept the bow well bent, and 
they swung in great glee. But soon, one 
by one, the girls dropped, laughing, to the 
ground, till Ruth French, three years old, 
was left hanging alone. The bow slowly 
unbent and up went the tree-top. 

“Hold on! hold on tight!” the children 
cried to her. 

Before they could run from the grove for 
help, the Soldier Boy, hearing their shouts 
and calls, quickly dropped sword and dagger, 
and ran for the tree. He realized at once 
that, if he could get up the tree, his weight 
would bend it down again, for well he knew 
his splendid size. 

So up, up he scrambled. Never mind 
scratches nor torn clothes, Soldier Boy! 
Be careful, don’t jerk the tree or Ruth will 
lose her slight hold! Steady, steady! 

Slowly the sapling bends, lower and lower, 


THE SOLDIER BOY 35 

and now, “Let go, Ruth!” they cry, and she 
drops to the ground. All are laughing once 
more, and they name it the Christmas tree, 
with Ruth for the present dropped by Santa 
Claus as he climbed up. 

When Christmas eve came there was a 
knock at the log cabin door, and what do you 
think the Soldier Boy found standing there? 
That Christmas tree, and hanging on it a 
lovely gun, a real soldier boy’s air gun that 
would shoot, put there by Ruth’s father. 
A card attached read: 

Here’s to the Soldier, warlike and wild ! 
Here’s to the Brave Boy, who rescued a 
child! 

Estelle Robinson 


MUINWA THE RAIN 
FAIRY 


W IEN the soft summer rain came, 
gently caressing leaves and flowers 
and bringing new life to them, the 
Indian mothers used to tell their dusky- 
faced little ones the following story. 

Once, when the earth was new, trouble 
came to all who dwelt upon it. This trouble 
came not only to the men and women, but 
also to the animals, the birds, and even to 
the trees, grasses and flowers. 

The moisture had all gone from the earth. 
The ground was parched and dry, while the 
grass was growing brown, and the flowers 
were beginning to droop and fade. 

The plants looked upward, crying, “0 
Muinwa, good Muinwa, send us water, or 
we die!” 

The good Muinwa was troubled. To 
whom could he turn for help? 

First he cried to the sea, “0 sea, send 
your water upon the land, that the plants 
may be refreshed!” 


MUINWA THE RAIN FAIRY 37 

The sea tried, but it could send its waters 
only a little way inland. All else was as dry 
as ever. 

Then Muinwa cried out to the rivers and 
the lakes, begging them to help him. They 
tried, but all they could do was to seethe and 
foam, overflowing their banks but a little 
way and for a little while. Then all was as 
it had been before. 

At last the great sea-gulls cried, “Muinwa, 
we will try to help you.” 

They dipped their wings in the lake and 
flew over the land, scattering the drops of 
water on the grass and flowers. 

Alas! they could do so little. Here and 
there a drooping blossom lifted its head, 
refreshed, but many others must soon die, if 
help did not come. 

However, the sea-gulls’ helpfulness had 
not been in vain. Muinwa called to them, 
“Thank you, 0 you gulls of the strong wings 
and the brave hearts! You have taught me 
a way to bring relief to the suffering. From 
all the birds of the forest I will ask feathers. 
With them I will make a wing so great that 
it shall stretch across the whole earth. This 
I will dip in the waters of the lake and shake 


38 STORY TELLING TIME 

down a plentiful supply for the drooping 
plants.” 

Muinwa called the wild birds of the forest 
together. When they had heard his story, 
they gladly gave him of their feathers. Of 
them Muinwa made the great wing. With 
it he brought cool, refreshing showers to the 
parched earth. 

So the little Indian boys and girls would 
look out from the doors of their wigwam 
homes, at the softly falling rain and say, 
“The good Muinwa is shaking his great 
wing.” 

Hope Daring 


A RACE 


A GAY little brook ran to reach the 
town, 

When it saw the snowflakes come 
softly down. 

The wind was cool and the day was done, 
And the little brook missed the warming sun. 
“I must pass the wood,” the mother brook 
said, 

“And the sight of the mill-wheel gives me 
dread.” 

The foam children hung by the old log bridge, 
And they dallied along by the sandy ridge. 
“Jack Frost is coming!” the mother brook 
cried, 

And tried to draw them back to her side. 
“If you’ll only follow, all will be well!” 

Just then Jack Frost tripped her feet and she 
fell. 

He held her fast, and he said with a smile, 
“You’ve been running far — better rest 
awhile. 

My guests you may be till the first birds sing. 
As hostages I will hold you till spring.” 

Edna A. Foster 


KITTY BILLY’S HUNTING 
DAY 


I T was hunting day for Kitty Billy. Go- 
ing past the cornfield he thought he 
heard a rustling noise. He stepped 
quietly in among the long green blades and 
sat down to listen; but all he could hear was 
the rattling of the corn-blades as they 
tinkled, “Lit-tle Silk-y Kit-ty Bil-ly, noth- 
ing here for you; Lit-tle Silk-y Kit-ty Bil-ly, 
nothing here for you.” 

So Kitty Billy walked on until he came 
to the orchard. A nice, plump, little bird 
would do very well for lunch. And sure 
enough, there was one just balancing him- 
self by his wings, as he stood on the lowest 
bough and daintily dipped his bill into a 
juicy peach. 

Kitty Billy twitched his ears and straight- 
ened his back and jerked his tail as he 
thought of the lunch he was going to have. 
But the little bird saw him and flew away to 
the top of the tallest apple-tree, and all the 


KITTY BILLY’S HUNTING DAY 41 

little leaves in the orchard rustled together, 
“Nothing here for Lit-tle Silk-y Kit-ty 
Bil-ly; nothing here for Lit-tle Silk-y Kit-ty 
Bil-ly.” 

Then Kitty Billy wandered into the barn 
and sat down beside a little dark hole in the 
wall. He sat there so long that he hardly 
knew whether he was awake or asleep, 
listening, listening, listening; but all he 
could hear was the soft breeze that came 
through the window, sighing over and over, 
“Nothing here for you-o-o; nothing here 
for you-o-o.” 

At last Kitty Billy decided to try some- 
where else, but just as he reached the door, 
he heard a voice calling. It was the voice of 
his friend, and it said, “Come, Lit-tle Silk-y 
Kit-ty Bil-ly, something here for you!” 

Kitty Billy came with a leap and a bound. 
He saw something he liked very much, some- 
thing nice and white and soft and juicy, held 
out just above his reach. He forgot to 
twitch his ears and jerk his tail. He never 
thought of sitting still and dozing while he 
waited. Indeed, he never thought of wait- 
ing. He just stood up on his hind legs and 
made himself as tall as he could, and then he 


42 STORY TELLING TIME 

said “Now! no-ow!” as plainly as he knew 
how to say it. 

At last the sweet, white, soft, juicy thing 
was in his hungry mouth, and Kitty Billy 
walked away with it to the shelter of the 
rustling corn-blades, which rustled harder 
than ever, as they tinkled to one another, 
“Why, who would ever have dreamed that 
Lit-tle Silk-y Kit-ty Bil-ly would care to eat 
one of our nice white, soft, juicy ears of 
corn!” 

And after that, whenever Kitty Billy 
came into the cornfield, the long green blades 
rustled and tinkled, “Lit-tle Silk-y Kit-ty 
Bil-ly, something here for you, something 
here for you!” 

Lillian Manker Allen 


'V 


HOW IT CAME ABOUT 


T HREE silver nights the frost came 
down, 

Still-footed, keen, and gleaming. 

The little muffled Men in Brown 
Believed that they were dreaming — 
Were sure they must be dreaming. 

Yet a sharp whisper at their ear, 

A sly touch fumbling at their throats 
Worried them till they waked to hear: 
“Throw off your prickly overcoats!” 

A flutter stirred the branches then, 

A breeze came romping after, 

And all the coatless little men 
Grew reckless in their laughter — 

Grew helpless in their laughter — 

And rocked and bounced and capered so, 

In such a madcap way, 

That all the schools let out to go 
A-chestnutting today. 

Nancy Byrd Turner 


SINGING 


O H, we can sing right lustily. 

As all good children should ! 

And often when we’re naughty we 
Must sing until we’re good. 

I sometimes want to scratch and Tom 
Says he would rather bite. 

Nurse makes us stand and sing instead, 

It’s so much more polite ! 

And when we’ve sung a song or two, 

The crossness all is done, 

And still we sing, and sing, and sing. 

And sing — but just for fun. 

Perhaps if other children knew, 

Who want to scratch and bite. 

They’d try what singing songs will do — 
It’s so much more polite! 

Hannah G. Fernald 


THE EYES OF THE KING 


R UPERT wanted to be a page. Some- 
times a lad who is a faithful page 
grows up to be a knight. Rupert 
could almost see himself kneeling at the foot 
of the throne, and hear the king’s clear voice 
ringing out, “Rise, Rupert, knight!” 

That was why Rupert had started away 
from the tiny house in the forest, where his 
father and mother and all the little brothers 
and sisters lived. They were poor, oh, very 
poor indeed, but Rupert would change all 
that when he was a page, and afterward a 
knight. 

First he must find the king. That might 
be a very difficult task for a little lad. The 
king lived leagues away, and he seldom gave 
any one audience, and never a lad from the 
forest. But Rupert started gaily down the 
wood road, with his bundle of food slung 
over his back. Before sundown he would 
find the king. 

Rupert knew how the king looked. He 


46 STORY TELLING TIME 

should be able to recognize him, just by his 
great, kind eyes. Rupert had seen a won- 
derful painting of the king, and beneath the 
shaggy hair and the big crown and the stern 
brow shone those deep, tender eyes. He 
would know the king — of that Rupert was 
very sure. 

But what was that! As Rupert trudged 
bravely along over stones and through the 
briers and thickets of the forest, something 
cold and wet touched his hand. He stopped 
and looked down to see a starved, unkempt 
dog whining and cringing at his heels. His 
tongue hung from his mouth, his coat was 
covered with mud, and he was so weak that 
he could hardly stand. 

“Poor doggie!” Rupert unstrapped his 
bag of dry meat and black bread and laid 
them down in the road in front of the hungry 
beast. “Eat all that you like. I do not 
need it. I shall find the king before sun- 
down.” 

The dog did not stop eating until every 
crumb of the food was gone. Then he lifted 
his head and looked gratefully at Rupert. 
What strange eyes the dog had — large 
and deep and almost human! Where had 


THE EYES OF THE KING 47 

Rupert seen those eyes before? He won- 
dered as he started on again. 

The road through the wood was very long 
and it seemed to have no turning. The day 
wore on and it was high noon, but still 
Rupert had not seen the shining minarets 
of the palace. He was tired and footsore 
and discouraged. As he was almost ready 
to turn back home, an old woman carrying 
a bundle of fagots overtook him. She could 
hardly carry the burden, it was so heavy. 

“ I will help you, goody ! ” Rupert put the 
bundle on his strong young shoulders and 
tramped sturdily on, until the two reached 
the woman’s hut on the edge of the forest. 

“ God bless you, lad ! ” The woman stood, 
bowing and curtsying in her doorway. There 
were tears in her old eyes. As Rupert 
looked at her, he rubbed his own eyes in 
surprise. Where had he seen a pair of eyes 
like hers before, so kind, so large? 

It was past sundown when Rupert reached 
the palace gates, and he was not able to 
enter, because there was so great a crowd. 

“The king is coming! Long live the 
king!” the throng cried, and they pushed 
and jostled in front of Rupert and pressed 


48 STORY TELLING TIME 

him away from the gates. As he almost fell 
in the crowd, he saw a beggar crouched by 
the roadside. 

“Water, water!” the man cried. “I have 
had nothing to quench my thirst since dawn, 
and I faint.” 

For a second Rupert hesitated. If he 
went back to the village well and filled his 
cup with water, he would be too late to see 
the king and to present himself before him. 
But it was only a moment of waiting. Then 
he pushed bravely through the throng and 
returned with a cup of water. As the beggar 
put the cup to his lips, he raised his eyes to 
Rupert’s face — oh, those wonderful eyes! 
— then he rose and stripped off his rags, and 
the king stood there, smiling down on the 
lad. 

“Rupert, my knight,” he said, “you 
served me when I was hungry, and when I 
was sore pressed with a heavy load. When 
I was faint you quenched my thirst. Come, 
and serve me always!” 

And the king led the lad through the 
crowd and in the palace gates. 

Carolyn Sherwin Bailey 


TIME’S BOX 


I WONDER where the days live, 

And where it is they go — 

The sunny days in grassy ways, 
The days that dwell in snow, 

The little days that fly so quick, 

The days that lag so slow. 

I truly think that Time keeps 
Them all within a box, 

And only he has got the key, 

And only he unlocks 
The door and takes them out, you know, 
And sends them off in flocks. 

If I could get the key once, 

It would be fine, you know, 

For if I did I’d lift the lid 
And leave those creeping, slow, 

Gray days, and take the dear days out, 
So blue and quick to go. 

Alice Van Leer Carrick 


THE WOOD FOLK 


T HE wood folk scamper to and fro; 
They have no tasks to do. 

It’s here and there and high and low 
For them, the whole day through; 

Up to the tops of highest trees, 

In holes and caves, and where they please. 

They have no clothes to guard with care, 
No shoes upon their feet, — 

For fur and feathers never tear, 

And claws are always neat — 

No hooks to hook, no strings to tie. 

Small wonder that they skip and fly! 

The wood folk frolic everywhere, 

With all the sky o’erhead, 

A swaying bough for rocking-chair, 

A hollow trunk for bed. 

And yet, for all this woodland joy, 

Who would not rather be a boy? 

Nancy Byrd Turner 


THE KING AND THE 
COUNTRY GIRL 

T HE king was driven in his splendid 
carriage along the great street of the 
town. The rich people bowed low 
as he passed. The fine ladies threw flowers 
before him on the road, so that he might 
ride over them. They shouted, “Long live 
the king! Long live the king!” 

But the king sighed, for it did not make 
him happy only to be honored. 

Then the king rode through the poor 
street of the town, and he took with him a 
big bag of gold, and he dipped his hand into 
it and threw out handfuls among the crowds 
of poor people that gathered about his 
carriage. They grabbed greedily for the 
gold, and they whined if some one else got 
the piece they tried for, and they cried, 
“Many thanks, sire! Many thanks, sire!” 
And then they ran from him to spend their 
gold. 

But the king sighed, for it did not make 
him happy only to be thanked. 


52 STORY TELLING TIME 

Then the king took off his velvet robe and 
his golden crown and his sparkling rings and 
walked alone, with no servant following, 
outside of the town. There he found a 
country girl sitting on the roadside crying. 

The king said to her, “What troubles you, 
girl?” 

And the girl, never knowing he was the 
king, said, “It is because I have lost the 
piece of money my grandmother gave me to 
buy sugar in the town, and she will beat me 
if I come back without it.” And she cried 
again. 

The king reached for his bag of gold, but 
then he remembered that he had left that 
behind with his fine clothes. 

“Let us hunt for it, you and I,” he said. 

So they walked slowly back on the road 
along which the girl had come. The sun 
was hot. The road was dusty. There were 
briers by the roadside which caught the 
king’s clothes and scratched his hands, as he 
put them aside to look for the piece of money. 
And when the girl nearly fell from weariness 
and trouble, he made her sit under the shade 
of a tree, while he looked alone. 

It was wanting but a few moments of the 


THE KING AND COUNTRY GIRL 53 

sunset when at last the king found the piece 
of money, shining in a hole in the roadside 
where it had slipped. The king was very 
hot and very tired. He had never been in 
the hot sun so long. He had never been so 
scratched by briers and so tired from bending 
over. 

But he forgot all that when he saw the 
look in the girl’s face as he gave her the 
money. 

“Oh, sir!” she said. “Oh, sir! I shall 
never forget how kind you have been. Oh, 
sir! I never knew one so kind.” And she 
went happily on to the town to spend her 
money, with no fear of the grandmother’s 
beating. 

And the king smiled. It was love that 
could make him truly happy. 

Frances Weld Danielson 


IN GRANDMA’S KITCHEN 


A T home the kitchen seems so far away. 
Cook says that it’s no place for 
children’s play, 

That little girls get underfoot, and boys 
Just drive her nerves distracted with their 
noise. 

But once I went to grandma’s house to stay, 
And pretty soon there came a rainy day, 
And we were in the kitchen and — oh, my! — 
My grandma let me bake a dolly’s pie. 

I pared the apple and I laid it in, 

And sugared it and rolled the crust out thin, 
And pricked a pattern on it with a fork. 

I do think cooking is such pleasant work. 

I washed my dishes, too, and that was fun, 
And watched the oven till my pie was done. 
And grandma said, when it was on the shelf, 
She never made a better pie herself! 

Hannah G. Fernald 


Under a Shady Tree 





















WHEN TASTES DIFFER 


T HE sun is bright and the air just right, 
I know a meadow of daisies white. 
Hurry, scurry, and get the doll! 

We’ll all go under one parasol. 

There’s never a day like a fair June day 
For picking of daisies!” cried tireless Ray. 

“The grass is green where the big trees lean, 
And the hammock-cradle rocks slow between. 
Let’s pretend it’s a sailing ship. 

Roll into the cabin and take a trip. 

There’s never a day like a warm June day 
For swinging and dreaming,” said drowsy 
May. 

What did they do? To tell you true, 

I didn’t tarry to hear it through, — 

Whether they went or whether they stayed, 
Or which was really the wiser maid. 

But — whichever chose the other one’s way. 
She chose the best on that bright June day! 

Nancy Byrd Turner 


BOBBY SQUIRREL’S BUSY 
DAY 



N early riser was Bobby Squirrel. 


One particular day he got up very 


-*■ early and, whisking his long gray 
tail over his back, scampered out of the tree 
where he lived and ran down a little brown 
path in the woods. 

“Look at Bobby Squirrel,” said the bob- 
tailed rabbit. “He’s proud of his tail, and 
he wants everybody to see it.” 

“Look at Bobby Squirrel,” cried the 
frolicsome chipmunks. “He carries his tail 
as if it were a flag.” 

“Look at Bobby Squirrel,” whistled the 
merry breezes. “He wants us to help him 
make his long gray tail more beautiful.” 

But Bobby Squirrel paid not the slightest 
attention to the bob-tailed rabbit, or the 
frolicsome chipmunks, or the merry breezes. 
He knew that he had a great deal of work to 
do between sunrise and sunset, and he knew 
that he must be about it, if he were going to 
get it done. 



LOOK AT BOBBY SQUIRREL,” 

BOBTAILED RABBIT 


SAID THE 













































































































































































BOBBY SQUIRREL’S BUSY DAY 59 

By the edge of the little brown path there 
lay some prickly seeds that wanted to be 
planted farther along, but they could not 
go so far of themselves. Bobby Squirrel 
saw them and picked them up with his long 
gray tail, and carried them as far as the end 
of the path, where they could grow into trees 
sometime. 

Then Bobby Squirrel hurried back to the 
hickory-nut tree, where the ground was all 
covered with ripe nuts. He whisked the 
nuts into piles with his long gray tail and 
buried them for the winter in holes that he 
dug with his paws. When all the nuts were 
safely buried, it was time to go home, so 
Bobby Squirrel hurried back along the little 
brown path until he came to the hollow tree 
that was his house. 

Bobby Squirrel’s house had grown very 
untidy while he was gone. A tramp squir- 
rel had stopped there to eat his dinner 
and had scattered nut shells all over Bobby 
Squirrel’s green moss carpet. The merry 
breezes had blown leaves and bits of earth 
and scraps of paper inside the house, so 
before he did one single other thing, Bobby 
Squirrel swept the floor of his house with 


60 STORY TELLING TIME 

his long gray ..tail, which served him very 
well for a broom. 

Then the stars came out and the trees 
began to rock to and fro with a motion that 
made him very sleepy, so he curled up in a 
furry ball with his long gray tail that was so 
very useful for a pillow, and Bobby Squirrel 
went fast asleep. 


Carolyn Sherwin Bailey 


THE PARTY CALL 


I ALWAYS have to wear my shiny shoes; 
I always have to wear my feather hat; 
And so does Nell. We walk along in 
twos, 

And if we skip, why, nurse says, “Don’t 
do that!” 

Oh, there is never any fun at all, 

When we’re dressed up to pay our party 
call! 

You know, we may have worn our oldest 
frocks. 

And played in their back yard that very 
day. 

But as nurse marches to the door and knocks, 
We have to stop and stand up straight and 
say. 

When grown-up people meet us in the 
hall, 

“Good-day; we’ve come to pay our party 
call.” 


62 STORY TELLING TIME 

The other children aren’t dressed up a bit, 
Just playing tag, or swinging in the swing. 
Our starchy clothes and manners don’t seem 
fit 

To run or jump or do a single thing. 

Oh! do you think it’s just because we’re 
small 

We never like to pay our party call? 

Alice Van Leer Carrick 


THE LITTLE OLD MAN 
AND HIS GOLD 

O NCE upon a time a miser lived in a 
little hut at the foot of the hill. 
For years the people of the town 
had given him crusts of bread and baskets of 
coal and old, out-worn garments only in pity, 
for they did not love the miser. 

It was whispered that he had in his hut a 
bag of gold and silver, yet he was never 
known to buy a loaf of bread or a bundle of 
fagots, choosing to go hungry or to shiver 
with cold until some one provided for his 
needs, rather than to part with one of his 
precious gold coins. 

Each newcomer asked of him the same 
question, “Why do you live here thus, idle 
and lonely, old man, when the world is so 
beautiful and the bread of honest labor is 
sweet?” 

And to each question he made ever the 
same answer, “ I am looking for gold. When 
I have enough gold I shall be happy.” 

Each year his hair grew whiter and his 


64 STORY TELLING TIME 

form more bent. The children feared him 
and ran past his doorway. 

One day a little lad and lass came to live 
in the town, and when, at play, they drew 
near the miser’s hut, the other children drew 
them back, whispering to them not to go near 
the wild-looking old man who lived there. 

But they, being kind children and fearless, 
only went closer — so close that they saw 
the old man sitting lonely in his doorway. 

“Why do you live here alone, old man,” 
asked the little lad, “when the world is so 
beautiful, and so many people would like to 
be your friends?” 

“I have no friends,” answered the miser. 
“I am looking for gold. When I have all 
I wish I shall be happy,” and again he said, 
with sadness, “I have no friends.” 

When he said this, the little lad and the 
little lass looked into each other’s eyes, and 
each knew what the other was thinking. 

“Ah! I will show you the most beautiful 
gold,” cried the lad, “if you will come with 
me,” for he grieved to see the old man sitting 
alone. 

So he took him by the hand and led him 
to the woods, and as they went they talked 


OLD MAN AND HIS GOLD 65 

happily, until the miser’s heart began to 
grow warm. The little lad brought him to 
the place where the marsh-marigolds grew. 
“See! here is gold — worlds of it!” he cried. 

The old man sat down on a log in deep 
silence, and his tired eyes rested on the great 
field of golden blossoms that seemed to 
laugh into the face of the sun. As he looked 
he remembered how when he was a boy he 
had waded ? among the marsh-marigolds and 
held them in his hands and laughed aloud 
for joy of them, and he smiled. 

“Ah! this is pure gold,” he cried. “This 
is the gold of flowers.” 

Then they gathered marsh-marigolds until 
their arms were full, and as they walked 
back through the town the people wondered. 

At the door of the hut the little lass was 
standing. She had swept the cottage, and 
put fresh boughs on the hearth, and opened 
all the cottage windows. 

“See!” she cried, laughing till her teeth 
looked like shining pearls, “here is golden 
sunlight for you. Isn’t this enough? Are 
you happy?” 

Then the miser laid his hands on her 
golden hair. 


66 STORY TELLING TIME 

“And this little head,” he said, “wears a 
crown of gold better than any queen. To- 
day I have indeed found gold.” 

The little lad and the little lass wondered 
at what happened next, for the miser drew 
forth from his bed a bag of gold coins, and 
he gave them some and sent them out to 
buy bread and honey, and said to them, 
“To every hungry child you meet, give a 
gold coin.” 

So they went out gleefully, and when they 
came back all the coins they had taken with 
them were gone, and they three sat down 
and feasted, and the children laughed, but 
a smile was on the old man’s lips. 

From that day all sick people and all poor 
and old in the town were fed and comforted 
by him who had once been a miser. His 
form grew straight and the smile hovered 
always about his lips. 

But of all those who loved him, those whom 
he loved best were the little lad and lass. 
And each year they three gave a feast for all 
the poor of the town, at the time when the 
marsh-marigolds bloomed. 

Phila Butler Bowman 


KODNEY’S WHITE GLOVES 


R ODNEY didn’t like to have his hands 
washed. Not that he enjoyed be- 
ing dirty, oh, dear no, not at all, but 
he was always so full of play that it seemed 
a waste of time to stop just to wash his 
hands! 

One day he had been out playing with his 
little red iron automobile, and when he came 
in his hands were very black indeed. It was 
time for him to get washed and dressed for 
the afternoon, but mother knew that if she 
suggested it he would be sure to think of 
something that he had to do first, so she tried 
a different plan. 

Filling the basin full of warm water and 
taking a piece of soap, she dipped her hands 
in and rubbed the soap between them until 
they were covered with creamy white lather. 
Then she called Rodney. 

“I’m the saleswoman, and this is the glove 
counter,” she said, “and I want to try some 
white gloves on you.” 


68 STORY TELLING TIME 

Rodney laughed and held out his little 
black hands, and mother covered them with 
the white lather, smoothing it carefully and 
pretending to push on each finger, just as he 
had seen them do it at the glove counters in 
the stores. 

‘‘Yes, they fit perfectly,” said mother, “so 
we can take them off.” The way she took 
them off, of course, was to dip them into the 
water in the basin — and there were Rod- 
ney’s hands sweet and clean. 

Louise M. Oglevee 


THE DAY 


W IEN I wake up and see the sun, 
And all the sleeping time is done, 
I know another day is here, 

And yet to me it seems so queer 
That no one sees the day creep in, 

Or just how all the hours begin, 

Or where day goes when it is night, 

With only stars and moon for light! 

I’d like to get up once at four, 

And watch the shadows on the floor, 

And try to see with my own eyes 
What is the very shape and size 
Of that the grown-ups call a day; 

For what it’s like they cannot say. 

It must be something no one sees, 

That hides in sunshine on the trees, 

And steals about through everything, 

And makes you want to run and sing. 

Edna A. Foster 


THE CITY GAEDEN 


W IEN I am out at grandmamma’s, 
the garden’s all around. 

There roses climb up on the 
house, and really, I’ll be bound, 

’Most every kind of flower there is grows in 
my grandma’s ground. 


And then when I come home again, there are 
sidewalks everywhere, 

And all the streets look just alike, so hot and 
hard and bare, 

And all the flowers just grow in pots, and 
play that they don’t care. 


I think it’s really sweet of them to try so 
very hard 

To make a truly garden in our little city 
yard, 

Instead of pining for the fields and meadows 
daisy-starred. 


THE CITY GAKDEN 71 

I water them myself each day, and pet and 
praise them lots, 

And say how glad I am our yard has two 
such beauty spots; 

But, oh, I miss my grandmamma’s, where 
gardens aren’t in pots I 

Hannah G. Fernald 


CLOUD CURTAINS 


T HE sun gets, oh, so very hot 

’Twould burn the world below, 

And so God pulls the curtains down. 
They are the clouds, you know. 

How very thankful we should be 
For God’s care, watching constantly! 

Bertha E. Bush 


ABOUT A WATER PARTY 


O NCE upon a time there was a water 
party in a brook. Everybody was 
there. When the roll was called, 
Mr. Water Spider said, “Here ! ” Mr. Trout 
said, “Here!” Mr. Crab said, “Here!” 
Mr. Frog said, “Here!” Mr. Whirlwig 
Beetle said, “Here!” Mr. Lizard said, 
“Here!” Mr. Water Snail said, “Here!” 
and Mr. Polly wog said, “Here!” 

Each one was asked to tell what he would 
do if danger were near, and the one that 
gave the best answer should have a prize. 

Mr. Water Spider said he would skip about 
so briskly on the top of the brook that no 
one could catch him. Surely, no one could 
do better than that, so he ought to have the 
prize. 

Mr. Trout said that to dart from stone to 
stone and to hide under an overhanging bank 
was better than skipping briskly about on 
the top of the brook, so he ought to have the 
prize. 

Mr. Crab said that to back down a hole 


74 STORY TELLING TIME 

under the stones was better than skipping 
briskly about on the top of the brook, or 
darting from stone to stone and hiding under 
an overhanging bank, so he ought to have 
the prize. 

Mr. Frog said that to give one big hop into 
the rushes was better than skipping briskly 
about on the top of the brook, or darting 
from stone to stone and hiding under an over- 
hanging bank, or backing down a hole under 
the stones, so he ought to have the prize. 

Mr. Whirlwig Beetle said that to dance 
madly around in a circle was better than 
skipping briskly about on the top of the 
brook, or darting from stone to stone and 
hiding under an overhanging bank, or back- 
ing down a hole under the stones, or giving 
one big hop into the rushes, so he ought to 
have the prize. 

Mr. Lizard said that to squirm among the 
pebbles was better than skipping briskly 
about on the top of the brook, or darting 
from stone to stone and hiding under an 
overhanging bank, or backing down a hole 
under the stones, or giving one big hop into 
the rushes, or dancing madly around in a 
circle, so he ought to have the prize. 


ABOUT A WATER PARTY 75 

Mr. Water Snail said that to crawl back 
into your shell was better than skipping 
briskly about on the top of the brook, or 
darting from stone to stone and hiding under 
an overhanging bank, or backing down a 
hole under the stones, or giving one big hop 
into the rushes, or dancing madly around in 
in a circle, or squirming among the pebbles, 
so he ought to have the prize. 

Then they turned to Mr. Pollywog. 

“Well,” said he, “I know I shall not get 
the prize, for my way will seem silly to you 
who can skip briskly about on the top of the 
brook, dart from stone to stone and hide 
under an overhanging bank, back down a 
hole under the stones, give one big hop into 
the rushes, dance madly around in a circle, 
squirm among the pebbles, or crawl back 
into your shell. My way is just to lie quietly 
in the mud till the danger is past.” 

After all, Mr. Pollywog took the prize, 
for his way was found to be the most simple 
and easy of all. What this prize was, I do 
not know, but I am sure it must have been 
something that pollywogs like. 

Blanche Elizabeth Wade 


AN EASTER SURPRISE 


M OTHER watched Paul walk slowly 
up and down in front of the house. 
It was very early in the spring- 
time, so early that the birds had not yet 
come back from the south and the trees had 
no leaves, but the sun was warm and bright 
and seemed to be trying to tell the world 
that winter was over. By and by Paul 
wanted something to play with, so mother 
gave him a flower pot full of sand and an old 
spoon, and he sat on the sunny porch. 

Every year mother had a large bed of 
beautiful tulips. Paul did not know about 
the tulips, for he was only three years old, 
but he saw the big round place in the front 
yard where there was no grass, and it looked 
nice and soft to dig in. So he emptied his 
pot of sand into his little wagon, and filled it 
up again with soft dirt from the tulip bed. 
He did this over and over until the wagon 
was full. 

The long street was very quiet, with 


AN EASTER SURPRISE 77 

nobody in sight, so the little boy with his 
wagon walked slowly down to the corner. 
Just around the corner on the other side was 
a tiny house. It had a wee front yard and 
right in the middle of it was a round flower 
bed. There was no fence, so Paul walked in, 
and sitting down on the ground began to dig 
with a sharp stick that he had found. 

In his wagon were some round brown 
things that had been in the tulip bed, so 
when he had made a little round hole he put 
one of them into it and covered it up. Then 
he made more round holes and put in all of 
the brown balls that were in his wagon. He 
did not know it, but the brown balls were 
tulip bulbs. He was still playing happily 
when mother missed him and came after 
him in a great hurry. 

That afternoon the little old lady who 
lived in the little house sat looking sadly out 
of the window at her flower bed. 

“We’ll have no flowers this year,” she 
thought, for the little old man who made 
the flower bed was very, very ill, and the 
little woman was too busy taking care of 
him to plant flowers and too sad to want to. 

There were rainy days, and even a snowy 


78 STORY TELLING TIME 

one, and then more warm, sunny days. One 
happy day the little old man was better and 
the little old lady sat resting for a minute. 
She happened to look out at the flower bed, 
and what should she see but something 
growing! 

“It must be weeds,” she said, but she put 
her shawl over her head and ran out to see. 

How her eyes did shine when she found 
not weeds, but a row of tulips almost ready 
to bloom. 

“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried, “how did they 
ever get there? What a beautiful surprise 
they will be for father!” 

On Easter Day the big easy-chair was 
pushed over by the window, and the little 
old man was to sit up in it for an hour. 
The dear little old woman was so excited 
that she could scarcely wait until everything 
was ready, and she could pull back the cur- 
tains and let him look out. 

“Why, mother,” he cried, “where did you 
get them?” for the tulips were in full bloom, 
and, oh, so beautiful — red and yellow and 
pink and white swaying in the warm spring 
breeze! 

“I do not know where they came from,” 


AN EASTER SURPRISE 79 

she said, looking at the flowers with eyes full 
of love. “They are our Easter surprise.” 

“Somebody must love us even if we are 
old and poor,” said the old man. 

“ I never was so happy in my life,” said the 
little old woman softly. 

Louise M. Oglevee 


THE CURE 



HEN I was cross I tried to think 
of all 


▼ ▼ The pleasant things I could. 

My mother told me to, because she said 
That they would make me good. 

I thought about my orange story-book 
That’s full of little rhymes, 

And then about our playhouse in the wood. 
Where we have jolly times. 

I thought about our yellow singing bird, 
Within his little cage, 

And then of all the different boys and girls 
I like, about my age. 

I thought about our garden, where the 
flowers 

Grow pink and white and blue, 

And then about the cookies in the jar — 
Each morning I have two. 


THE CUBE 81 

I thought about the hammock where I swing, 
Down in a shady place, 

But most of all I liked to think about 
My mother’s pleasant face. 

Emily Rose Burt 


* 


THE FAIRY IN THE 
APPLE ORCHARD 

B UT you don’t believe in real fairies,” 
declared Dorothy, as she walked 
along beside her grandfather. “You 
just believe all these wonderful things are 
done by the dew and the wind and the sun.” 

Grandfather looked down at the sober face 
beside him. “ I suppose I am a heartless old 
fellow, but I can show you something really 
done by my magic workers, that is as won- 
derful as all the fairy work you can imagine.” 
“Well, what, grandfather?” 

“When we get back from the post office, 
I want you to come down in the orchard with 
me. That is all I’ll say just now, because 
the stage is coming and we must hurry along 
to get our mail.” 

Dorothy and grandpa always took this 
morning walk together, and they had won- 
derful talks about all the little growing 
things and the birds and animals. Dorothy 
learned some interesting things in this way, 


FAIRY IN THE APPLE ORCHARD 83 

but on one subject they disagreed. Grand- 
father could not believe in fairies. 

“I guess I am too big for fairyland,” he 
would often say. “One of my big boots 
would knock over the whole kingdom.” 

This morning Dorothy did not let grand- 
father forget his promise about the orchard, 
and it was with high anticipation that Dor- 
othy followed him through the field, over 
the stone wall, and along the cart road to 
the orchard. The apples were already of 
good size, many of them almost ready to 
gather; but a few were large without having 
much color. 

Grandfather led the way to a young tree 
near the wall. He had Dorothy sit down 
where she could see all that he did. First 
he opened a little envelope and took out a 
dozen pieces of brown paper, cut in various 
sizes. He then set a jar of paste on the top of 
the wall and put the ladder on the sunny side. 
Then he took the paste and the papers and 
went up into the tree. Dorothy saw him paste 
the papers on the apples, doing it very gently 
so as not to disturb them on the stem. He 
was so far above her that she could not tell 
what the little paper figures were like, but 


84 STORY TELLING TIME 

when he came down she could see the apples 
hanging there with the decoration. 

“Now then,’ 5 said grandpa, “before long I 
will show you some of my fairy work.” 

Dorothy could hardly wait for the time to 
come, and many times she questioned differ- 
ent ones in the family, but no one was able 
to give her a hint about the matter. 

One morning, when she had half forgotten 
about the orchard fairy work, she woke up 
and found the sun streaming into her room, 
and there on the window-sill was a pretty bas- 
ket of red apples. A note was pinned to the 
handle. She eagerly read it. “To dear Dor- 
othy from the Fairy of the Apple Orchard.” 

She took up one of the apples. It was 
rosy red and on one side was a white “D” 
as plain as could be. She took up another 
and there was the figure of a bird, on another 
was the form of a kitten’s head, another bore 
a cross, another a wheel, and several apples 
showed both her initials. 

She could hardly wait to dress but ran to 
the stairs to call down, “Grandpa, grandpa, 
you have won! Your fairies are more 
wonderful after all!” 


Edna A. Foster 


THE KING’S PAGE 


T HE king was riding in his splendid 
chariot. He was looking for a new 
page to live in his palace. All the 
boys in the kingdom knew of it, and every 
one longed to be chosen for page. So on 
this day, as the king rode along, he saw boys 
of all sorts on the roadside, dressed in velvet 
and silk, with their caps off their heads, as 
they made sweeping bows or dropped on 
one knee. And they all shouted, “Long live 
the king! Long live the king!” 

The king smiled as he rode slowly on, 
between the rows of handsome, well-dressed 
boys. He smiled and then he frowned. 
How should he ever tell which boy to choose ! 
They were all handsome. They were all 
well dressed. They were all well trained. 
They all bowed low and cried, “Long live 
the king!” 

Just then there came a terrible jolt and 
the carriage pitched and swayed. The 
king’s horses were running away. The royal 


86 STORY TELLING TIME 

coachman was thrown out. The king’s life 
was in danger. At the right hand and at 
the left the boys ran into the fields to get 
out of the way. They screamed with fright. 
A minute before they had been crying, 
“Long live the king!” Now they were 
doing nothing to save the king’s life. 

Ah, but one boy was not running! He 
was a little fellow, and he looked like a speck 
of red as he stood in the middle of the road 
in his red velvet suit. Yes, right in the 
middle of the road he stood, in the path of 
the running horses. And as they came 
plunging on, he jumped and caught one of 
them by the bridle and hung there, till some 
men rushed in and stopped them. 

When the brave boy next opened his eyes, 
he found himself lying on a soft bed in the 
palace. The king himself was beside him. 
“Long live the king!” he whispered, in a 
weak little voice. 

“Long live the king’s page, who saved the 
king’s life!” answered the king. 

Frances Weld Danielson 


in iiatfwiwwatMMMfci 



POLLY SENT FOR DOCTOR WILL 


.»*• - ' V — M* I nl K W W — * 



































* 



















































































































































POLLY’S DOLL 


P OLLY’S doll was taken ill, 

And Polly sent for Doctor Will, 
Who took her pulse, which beat 
slow. 

He said that she to bed must go. 

So dolly had to be undressed, 

And then to Polly she confessed, 

That she had eaten cookies four. 

And in her pocket were two more. 

Then dolly had to take a pill. 

Which was prescribed by Doctor Will, 
And Polly sewed the pocket tight 
In dolly’s dress that very night! 

Annie Dodge Tuttle 


WHITE CAPS 

T IS when the wind is rushing by, 

To chase the clouds across the sky, 
The waves put on their nice, white 
caps 

To keep from catching cold — perhaps! 

Elsie Crane Porter 


A FEARSOME FANCY 


T HE birds and beasts don’t go to school 
I guess ’twould make them mad to. 
They wouldn’t pass an hour in class; 
But just suppose they had to! 

How funny it would be to see 
The desks all full of scholars, 

With fins and claws and hoofs and paws, 
Skin coats and brown fur collars ! 

How strange ’twould seem to happen by 
And hear the teacher saying, 

“The kitty-cat geography 
Must be kept in from playing; 

And once again I tell you plain 
That I shall give a rapping 
To the very next first-reader owl 
That I discover napping.” 

The crabs would write in copy-books, 

Such crawly, scrawly letters; 

The bees would have a spelling-bee 
And buzz among their betters; 


90 STORY TELLING TIME 

And monkeys chatter French and squeak 
In Greek the live-long day, 

To scare the class of infant lambs, 

Who only know B-A. 

They’d send giraffes up to the board 
To figure out for each 
Problems in higher branches 
That they could never reach. 

And here and there and everywhere, 

No matter who played fool, 

They’d straightway clap a paper cap 
Upon the youngest mule. 

A looker-on might feel, maybe, 

A little consternation 
To see the bear philosophy 
Arise for recitation; 

And pupils all, and teacher, too, 

Would pale a bit, perchance, 

When the elephants came up to do 
Their calisthenics dance. 

But birds and beasts don’t go to school, 
As once before I’ve stated, 

And really, it is just as well 
They are not educated; 


A FEARSOME FANCY 91 

For, when you stop and think it out, 

It’s quite enough to see 

The hairy, woolly, toothy things 

In a menagerie. 

Nancy Byrd Turner 


A LEGEND OF THE 
GOLDENROD 


NCE there were a great many weeds 



in a field. They were very ugly- 


looking weeds, and they didn’t seem 
to be the least bit of use in the world. The 
cows would not eat them, the children would 
not pick them, and even the bugs did not 
seem to like them very well. 

“ I don’t see what we’re here for,” said one 
of the weeds. “We are not any good.” 

“No good at all,” growled a dozen little 
weeds, “only to catch dust.” 

“Well, if that’s what we’re here for,” cried 
a very tall weed, “then I say let’s catch dust! 
I suppose somebody’s got to do it. We can’t 
all bear blueberries or blossom into holly- 
hocks.” 

“But it isn’t pleasant work at all,” whined 
a tiny bit of a weed. 

“No whining allowed in this field,” 
laughed a funny little fat weed, with a hump 
in his stalk. “We’re all going to catch dust. 


LEGEND OF THE GOLDENROD 93 

so let's see which one can catch the most. 
What do you say to a race?” 

The little fat weed spoke in such a jolly 
voice that the weeds all cheered up at once, 
and before long they were as busy as bees 
and as happy as johnnie-jump-ups. They 
worked so well stretching their stalks and 
spreading out their fingers that before the 
summer was half over they were able to take 
every bit of dust that flew up from the road. 
In the field beyond, where the clover grew 
and the cows fed, there was not any to be 
seen. 

One morning, toward the end of summer, 
the weeds were surprised to see a number of 
people standing by the fence looking at them. 
Pretty soon some children came and gazed 
at them. Then the weeds noticed that 
people driving by called each other’s atten- 
tion to them. They were much surprised at 
this, but they were still more surprised when 
one day some children climbed the fence and 
commenced to pick them. 

“See,” cried a little girl, “how all the dust 
has been changed to gold!” 

The weeds looked at each other, and, sure 
enough, they were all covered with gold-dust. 


94 


STORY TELLING TIME 


“A fairy has done it,” they whispered one 
to the other. 

But the fairies were there on the spot and 
declared they had had nothing to do with it. 

“You did it yourselves,” cried the queen 
of the fairies. “You were happy in your 
work, and a cheerful spirit always changes 
dust into gold. Didn’t you know it? ” 

“You’re not weeds any more, you’re 
flowers,” sang the fairies. 

“Goldenrod, goldenrod!” shouted the 
children. 

Frances J. Delano 


HER ANSWER 


I T was an easy question and Margie 
thought it so, 

An easy one to answer, as any one 
would know. 

She smiled and smiled again as it hung upon 
the wall : 

“In going to school what do you like the 
very best of all?” 

Then grew a little sober as she began to write, 
With wrinkles on her forehead and lips a 
little tight. 

She wrote her answer carefully, with look so 
grave and wise. 

She minded all her capitals and dotted all 
her I’s. 

She crossed her T’s precisely. She smiled a 
little more 

At all the pleasant images the pleasant 
question bore, 

Of all the merry, laughing hours, and all the 
joyous play — 

“The thing I like the best of all in school — a 
holiday.” 


Sydney Dayre 


WADING 


OMETIMES I play I’m wading, 
But I don’t go near the sea. 

The edges of the daisy field 
Are wet enough for me. 

Emily Rose Burt 


AN ERRAND KNIGHT 



ITTLE Edward Morrison did not like 


to run errands. That seemed queer, 


-■ — too, because he never cried when he 
went to the store to get himself a stick 
of candy. He never said, “I don’t want 
to,” when he went three whole blocks to 
play with his cousin. And he never looked 
cross when mother told him to run down 
to the kitchen to get a nice new cooky for 
himself. 

Yet when she said, “Edward, dear, I wish 
you would go to the store and get me a spool 
of thread,” he would cry sometimes, as 
though he were hurt, and the spool-of-thread 
store was no farther away than the candy 
store. When Auntie May asked him if he 
would kindly take a note to the dressmaker, 
he would say, “I don’t want to,” although 
the dressmaker lived even nearer than Cousin 
Jack. And when father asked him if he 
would run downstairs and bring up a book 
from the library, Edward would look quite 


98 STOBY TELLING TIME 

cross sometimes, although the library was 
not so far away as the kitchen. 

At last Auntie May thought of a plan to 
make errands nothing but fun. 

“Edward,” said she, “I will tell you a 
story. Listen! Once upon a time there 
were two little boys who had to go on 
many errands, because their dear mother 
was a cripple. One little boy made a fuss 
nearly every time he was asked to do any- 
thing, but the other one ran at once without 
a word. 

“One day the first boy said to his brother, 
‘ Why do you act as though you liked to run 
errands all the time? I hate to go to places 
for folks.’ 

“‘Sometimes I do, too,’ said the second, 
‘but I just pretend I am a mounted knight 
in armor, and am going to a giant’s castle to 
get a hidden treasure. Then I gallop away 
on my own two feet, which make a fine, 
swift horse, and I bring back the treasure 
safely.’ 

“‘Guess I’ll try that way,’ said the first, 
‘for it sounds nice.’ 

“ He did try, too, and never found any more 
fault when he was asked to do things.” 


AN EKRAND KNIGHT 99 

What do you think happened after auntie’s 
story? Why, just this: 

Every morning Edward came to mother’s 
door and said, “Mother, here is a knight in 
armor waiting to go to a giant’s castle for a 
hidden treasure. Any errands today?” 

Blanche Elizabeth Wade 


THE PEARL 


O NCE upon a time there were two 
Shell Things lying side by side on a 
beach. The tide had washed them 
in, and one was great and green and glitter- 
ing, with long claws and long feelers, and 
thought himself the most beautiful Shell 
Thing ever washed in by the tide. The 
other was very tiny and dull gray, with no 
pretty color to boast of and no feelers, and 
not in any way beautiful to look at. 

“Where did you come from?” asked the 
great Shell Thing of the small Shell Thing, 
as they lay there, side by side. 

“I live near you in the sea,” said the small 
Shell Thing, in a voice as soft as the tiniest 
white cap rippling up to the shore. 

“ I never supposed one so ugly lived in the 
sea,” said the great Shell Thing, in a loud 
voice like the roar of the larger waves. 
“Why did you not grow feelers and claws, 
and put on a color like me?” 

“I never was able,” said the small Shell 
Thing. “I have been trying to raise feelers 
ever since I can remember, years and years 


THE PEAKIi 


101 


ago, in case I was ever washed in to shore. 
I lived by a piece of coral for ever so long, 
but he could not give me any color. I 
suppose it is of no use to try any longer.” 

“That is just the truth of the matter,” 
said the great Shell Thing. “You never 
will be of any use in the world, because you 
are ugly. There comes the fisherman. He 
is looking for me.” And he swelled himself 
out large with pride. 

“Now this is a haul,” said the fisherman, 
“a lobster — and what is this? Yes, it is 
really a little oyster, I do believe!” And 
the fisherman rowed home with the two 
Shell Things in the bottom of his boat. 

“See what I have brought you,” said the 
fisherman to his little girl, as he carefully 
opened the dull gray shell of the oyster. 
What do you suppose was inside? The 
prettiest pearl that ever you saw, with soft 
colors that shone all around; for the small 
Shell Thing had been carrying his color 
inside. And what became of the great, 
green Shell Thing? Why, he was only a 
lobster, you see, and so they put him in a 
pot and they boiled him for dinner. 

Carolyn Su erwin Bailey 


THE WAKING OF THE 
FLOWERS 


D OWN in the wonder world, under the 
ground, 

Dear little buds in a slumber were 
found. 

“Wake!” said the sun, “and good morning 
to you!” 

“Wake!” said the rain-drops, and “Wake!” 
said the dew. 


Down in the wonder world, dear little heads 
Drowsily raised themselves up in their 
beds, — 

Crocus and daffodil, hyacinth fair. 

Stirring and whispering, answered, “Who’s 
there?” 


Ah, but the calling they could not resist! 
Smiling, they wakened, as babes that are 
kissed, 

Stretching their glad little heads to the light. 
Broke into blossom, a wonderful sight. 


WAKING OF THE FLOWERS 103 

Up in the sun world a glad-hearted child 
Gathered the beautiful blossoms and smiled, 
“Daffodil, crocus, I’ve waited for you!” 
Then every blossom had learned why it grew. 

Phila Butler Bowman 


THE WIND 


I THINK the wind is very kind. 

It seems to run about and find 
The scent of clover and wild rose, 
The fragrant pine, and all that grows, 

To take to those, who, sick or sad, 

Need breath of fields to make them glad. 

I feel it run across my face 

Or see it through the tree-tops race; 

It hides behind a leaf or vine, 

And only makes a little sign 
By gently fluttering a flower; 

But ah! when there’s a coming shower, 

It whiffs the dust up in our eyes, 

Takes off our hats. That’s how it tries 
To tell us that the pouring rain 
Is coming fast across the plain. 

When once I saw wind out at sea, 

It tossed the waves and frightened me. 
The sailors called the wind a gale. 

I saw a boat with tattered sail. 

For some great use the wind was made. 

I like it when I’m not afraid. 

Edna A. Foster 


THE LITTLE BIRD IN 
THE BIRCH-TREE 



ET up! Get up!” twittered a wee 
■ little, sweet little voice. 


■* Little Betsy popped her black eyes 
wide open and listened. 

“Get up! Get up!” 

Then little Betsy hopped right out of her 
little brass bed and ran straight over to the 
open window and looked out. 

There sat a little bird in the birch-tree and 
twittered, “ Get up ! Get up ! ” 

Little Betsy got dressed very fast, with 
her mother’s help, in a neat little blue frock 
and a blue hair ribbon, and ran down the 
stairs to breakfast. After breakfast little 
Betsy ran out of the big screen door, and 
little Sally with her doll came over to play 
on the green grass under the birch-tree. 

Little Betsy and little Sally played and 
played with their dolls and their dolls’ ham- 
mock and their dolls’ swing and their dolls’ 
beds and their dolls’ go-cart. Then it began 


106 STORY TELLING TIME 

to get warm and little Betsy and little Sally 
began to get cross. 

“I want to wheel the go-cart,” said little 
Sally. 

“No, I want to,” said little Betsy. 

“I will,” said little Sally. 

“You won’t,” said little Betsy. 

“ Give up! Give up!” twittered a wee little, 
sweet little voice. 

Little Betsy popped her black eyes wide 
open and stopped saying cross words and 
listened. 

“ Give up! Give up!” 

Then little Betsy looked up, and there sat 
the little bird in the birch-tree and twittered, 
“ Give up! Give up!” 

Little Betsy began to smile and pushed the 
go-cart over toward little Sally. 

“You may wheel the go-cart,” said little 
Betsy. And so they played happily to- 
gether until little Sally went home. 

When it came to be afternoon, little 
Betsy’s father and little Betsy’s mother had 
to go away and leave little Betsy all alone 
under the birch-tree, except for Mary in the 
kitchen. 

Little Betsy felt very lonesome and 


THE LITTLE BIRD 107 

thought, “I wish my mother and my father 
would not go away or else I wish they would 
take me with them.” 

A big tear rolled out of little Betsy’s black 
eyes and fell on her neat little blue frock. 

“ Cheer up! Cheer up!” twittered a wee 
little, sweet little voice. 

Little Betsy popped her black eyes wide 
open and listened. 

“ Cheer up! Cheer up!” 

Then little Betsy looked up and there sat 
the little bird in the birch-tree and twittered, 
“ Cheer up! Cheer up!” 

Little Betsy began to laugh and she ran 
quickly and brought out three story-books, 
one with a green and gold cover, one with a 
pink and silver cover, and one with a red, 
white, and blue cover. And she read stories 
to all the dolls and was not lonesome any 
more. 

Pretty soon little Betsy’s father and 
mother came home, and they took little 
Betsy for a ride in the red car, and she saw 
the blue sea and the yellow sands and the 
white daisy fields and the deep green woods. 

And when it came to be little Betsy’s bed- 
time, she was so wide awake thinking about 


108 STORY TELLING TIME 

the sea and the sand and the fields and the 
woods and the red car that her black eyes 
would not shut up at all. 

“Shut them up! Shut them up!” twittered 
a wee little, sweet little voice. 

This time little Betsy knew without look- 
ing that a little bird sat in the birch-tree 
and twittered, “Shut them up! Shut them 
up!” 

And so little Betsy did. 

Emily Rose Burt 


The Hour Before Bedtime 



THE BEDTIME STORY 


W IEN bedtime comes and it is dark, 
In mother’s lap I climb, 

To hear the nicest story told 
Called, “Once upon a time.” 

“Now once upon a time,” she says, 

“A little girl I knew 
Was just about as sleepy 
And about as big as you. 

This little girl had curly hair, 

Red cheeks and eyes of blue, 

She looked — let’s see, now, let me think — 
Why, very much like you ! 

She wore a little pinafore 
And shoes and stockings, too, 

With bows of ribbon on her hair, 

Exactly, dear, like you. 

And she had many, many toys, 

And many dollies, too, 

To play with all the happy day — 

Yes, just the same as you. 

And every night, in mother’s arms, 

When play and games were through, 


112 STORY TELLING TIME 

She’d listen to a story, dear, 

Why, just the same as you! 

At last, one day — now listen well, 

For this is really true — 

I’m going to tell a thing she did 
That was so much like you!” 

Now what the story tells about 
I never know, instead 
The morning sun peeps in my room, 

And I wake up in bed ! 

Robert Seaver 



/ve n\5rcK aJorxg tKe K5.il r‘ j 
es clirrxb vip t ke s tab r 



CANDLE TIME 


I AND my brother Don take turns, 
When going up to bed. 

Who shall bear the candle, 

And who shall go ahead. 

Miles we march along the hall, 

Miles climb up the stair, 

Walk boldly through our mother’s room, 
And then at last we’re there, 

Safe in our cozy nursery 
Where the tin soldiers stand, 

With the toy lion keeping guard, 

And help on every hand. 

We’re glad the journey’s over; 

We’re glad we have the light. 

A child must be a little brave 
When all alone at night. 


Anne Schutze 


THE 

DISOBEDIENT DUCKLINGS 


Q UACK! quack! quack!” said Mother 
White Duck. “What a fine day 
this is — just the kind of weather 
for me to get the house in order!” 
“Quack! quack! quack!” said all the little 
ducklings. “We wish to clean house, too. 
We wish to help you, Mother White Duck.” 

“No, indeed,” said Mother White Duck. 
“I shall be far too busy. Go down to the 
pond, little ducklings, and dig for worms in 
the soft mud, and swim in the cool yellow 
water. Go to the pond and swim, but do 
not go near the big blue lake, for there 
are the large, vain ducks that tease little 
ducklings.” 

Then Mother White Duck flapped her 
wings very hard and said, “Quack! quack! 
quack!” very loud, and away hurried all the 
little ducklings. 

“Let us go to the big lake,” said one 
naughty little duckling to the others. 


DISOBEDIENT DUCKLINGS 115 

“The large, vain ducks will get us,” said 
the others. 

“If they come we will run very fast and 
hide in the bushes,” said the naughty little 
duckling. 

Then all the ducklings said they would 
like to take just one peep at the big 
blue lake, even if they did not swim. 
When they got to the shore, there was 
not one large, vain duck on the big blue 
lake. 

“Come,” said the naughty duckling, 
“there is not a duck in sight, and how cool 
and nice the water feels ! ” 

He put all his toes in the soft mud, then 
he laid his white body right on the water, and 
swam out on the big blue lake, and all the 
other little ducklings followed him. 

“Now I shall dive,” said the naughty 
duckling; but oh, oh! when he bent his head, 
what do you suppose he saw? A large, vain 
duck right beside him, diving too. 

“Quick! quick! the large, vain ducks are 
here!” he cried, and he swam with all the 
other ducklings, oh, so fast, till they reached 
the shore, and they ran straight home to 
Mother White Duck. 


116 STORY TELLING TIME 

“You are much too early. Why did you 
not swim more?” said she. 

“The large, vain ducks chased us,” said 
the naughty duckling. 

“Where did you swim? There are no 
large, vain ducks on the yellow pond. 
Come, show them to me.” 

The ducklings hung their heads very low 
while Mother White Duck followed them 
down to the big blue lake. 

“Show me the large, vain ducks,” said 
she. 

“They are gone now, but they did chase 
us,” said the ducklings. 

“Quack! quack! quack!” said Mother 
White Duck. “Those were just the shadows 
of your own naughty little selves. Now 
come home and swim on the muddy yellow 
pond, and you will not see those large, vain 
ducks again.” 


Frances Sykes 


THE INDIAN LEGEND OF 
THE WATER-LILY 



MONG the many stories of plant and 


animal life that have come down to 


us from the Indians who once peo- 
pled our land, there is none that the children 
love better than that of the water-lily. 
This legend goes back to a time when the 
world was said to be “filled with happy 
people.” All the tribes were at peace. 
There was neither drought nor famine. 
Winter and tempest were unknown. Day 
after day the sunlight lay, warm and golden, 
over all the land. 

In those happy days the Indians felt very 
near to the bright stars which nightly looked 
down upon them. The simple-hearted war- 
riors believed that the stars were the rest- 
ing-places of their loved ones who had 
passed, through the door of death, to the 
land beyond. So when one night a star 
dropped from the clear sky to the earth only 


118 STORY TELLING TIME 

a little way from them, they listened with 
gladness to its voice. 

“I have come to dwell among you,” the 
star said. “This I do because your hearts 
are pure, and you are both good and happy. 
Find for me a dwelling-place where I can 
watch over you and delight in the games and 
gladness of your children.” 

With joy they welcomed the star. One 
bade her dwell high up in the mountain. 

“That is too far away. I must be near 
you.” 

Another told her of a quiet nook in the 
forest where the wind sang all day among 
the pines. The star would not go there, for 
fear of being lonely. A maiden begged her 
to make her home in the heart of a white 
rose, but she said the rose’s petals would 
shut the wanderer from the sky away from 
the sight of her new friends. 

The homes of the Indians were on the 
bank of a beautiful stream. It was there 
that the star decided to live. The clear 
water mirrored the clouds, the trees dropped 
their branches down to touch the gleaming 
surface, the canoes glided from bank to 
bank, and there the children came to play. 


THE WATER-LILY 119 

It was night when the star went to her new 
home. When morning came she had taken 
on a new form. She was a water-lily — 
which the Indians call “wahbegwounee” 
— with petals of snow and a heart of gold. 

Hope Daring 


THE TRAIN WHISTLE 


I HEAR the whistle of the train 
Far off, when I’m at play, 

So loud and shrill it calls to me 
While rumbling on its way. 

I think about the boys and girls 
All dressed up fine and gay, 

Who start to go a- visiting 
Upon the train today. 

But best of all I like to think 
That folks who’ve been away — 

Oh, many miles from where they live! — 
Are coming home to stay. 

Alice M. Watts 


THE LITTLE BOOK 
PEOPLE 


A T half past eight I say “Good night” 
and snuggle up in bed. 

I’m never lonely, for it’s then I hear 
the gentle tread 

Of all the tiny book people. They come to 
visit me. 

And lean above my pillow just as friendly 
as can be ! 

Sometimes they cling against the wall or 
dance about in air. 

I never hear them speak a word, but I can 
see them there. 

When Cinderella comes she smiles with 
happy, loving eyes, 

And makes a funny nod at me when she the 
slipper tries. 

Dear Peter Pan flies in and out. I see his 
shadow, too, 

And often see his little house and all his 
pirate crew. 

I think they know I love them and that’s 
why they come at night, 


122 STOBY TELLING TIME 

When other people do not know that they’ve 
slipped out of sight. 

But I have often been afraid that while they 
visit me 

Some other little boy, perhaps, may stay up 
after tea. 

And when he tries to find them on the pages 
of his book. 

He cannot see them anywhere, though he 
may look and look! 

That’s why I never stay awake nor keep 
them here too long. 

I go to sleep and let them all slip back where 
they belong. 

Edna A. Foster 


WHEEL TRACKS 

T HE wheel tracks in the yellow dust, 
They run all criss-cross by. 

I cannot guess just how they go, 
But anyway I try. 

The narrow ones are carriage wheels, 

The wagon ones are wide, 

And there’s a motor-cycle track 
That streaks along the side. 

I’d like to find which was ahead, 

The carriage or the cart, 

But somehow it is very hard 
To tell the tracks apart. 

The wheel tracks in the yellow dust, 

They run all criss-cross by. 

I cannot guess just how they go, 

But anyway I try. 


Emily Rose Burt 


THE 

LITTLE BROWN LADY 


O NCE upon a time there lived — no 
one knew just where — a Little 
Brown Lady. Those children who 
had seen her said that her eyes were brown, 
with sunshine in their depths, her hair was 
brown, with little touches of gold, her dress 
of gold brown stuff just touched her brown 
shoes, and she carried in her arm a wonderful 
little brown bag, from which she took gifts 
for little children. 

Often when children forgot to be kind 
or obedient, mothers would sigh and say, 
“Oh, if the Little Brown Lady would only 
come!” 

So all the children longed for a glimpse of 
this wonderful little lady who came so softly 
that no one heard, and carried such wonder- 
ful gifts. 

One day, when the leaves were brown and 
the sky had a golden haze and the brown 


THE LITTLE BROWN LADY 125 

nuts were falling, she came softly over the 
hill to the spot where three little children 
were playing. They were John, who always 
forgot, and little Emily, with the cross 
wrinkle growing between her brows, and 
Rupert, who chose always the warmest place 
by the hearth and the first place in every 
game. 

Today John had forgotten the ball he had 
promised to bring, and little Emily was cross, 
and Rupert would have the first place in 
every game or he refused to play. 

Suddenly, without a footfall that little 
children could hear, the Little Brown Lady 
stood among them. So softly she came that 
they had no time to call up the smile with 
which all little children would wish to greet 
her. 

“I have gifts for you,” she said. 

“Oh, may I have mine first?” cried 
Rupert. 

‘‘Rupert is very rude,” said Emily, and 
the cross wrinkle came between the brows. 

Only John smiled and said, “Thank you, 
Little Brown Lady,” but he forgot to lift his 
hat as he had been taught to do. 

The Little Brown Lady turned and looked 


126 STORY TELLING TIME 

so steadily at Rupert that his face grew very 
red. Tears came to little Emily’s eyes at 
memory of her own words, but the Little 
Brown Lady took her by the hand, saying, 
“My gift to you is a mirror. Look in it 
every day for the image of a little child with 
sunshine in her eyes.” 

Emily took the mirror and looked in, but 
started back in dismay at the reflection 
there. Looking up, she saw the kindly 
eyes of the Little Brown Lady, and heard 
her voice. 

“Look each day,” she said again, “for the 
little child with sunshine in her eyes,” and 
little Emily turned away, understanding. 

“This tablet is for you,” she said to John. 
“Write in it each night all those things you 
have forgotten through the day.” 

John took the tablet, and as he hurried 
homeward to show mother the wonderful 
gift, he thought of all the things mother had 
taught him so gently. 

Then the Little Brown Lady, left alone 
with Rupert, laid her hand on his head and 
looked into his eyes. 

“Yours is the hardest task,” she said. “I 
give you this little bag of stones. Each time 


THE LITTLE BROWN LADY 127 

you do an unselfish act, drop a stone.” She 
was gone, and the little bag of stones weighed 
heavily on Rupert’s shoulders. 

Often and often, after that day, the three 
little children came to play together, and the 
play grew sweeter and the laughter gayer as 
the days passed. Each day John’s feet ran 
on willing errands. Each night his golden 
head bent over the white tablet. He had 
many things to write at first, but mother 
saw that the record grew shorter and 
shorter. 

When the cross words came crowding to 
little Emily’s lips, she drew forth the little 
mirror and looked until the smiles came back 
and little by little the cross line faded away. 

And whenever Rupert dropped a stone 
from the little bag, the weight on his shoulder 
grew less and his heart also grew lighter. 

One day, when John reached to see if the 
little tablet still hung about his neck, glad in 
the thought that many days had passed since 
he wrote on it, he found in its place a golden 
locket set with a clear white stone. 

When the day came that Rupert had 
dropped his last stone, he thrust his hand 
eagerly into the bag once more to see if this 


128 STORY TELLING TIME 

good thing were really true, and drew out a 
string of priceless pearls. 

But little Emily clung lovingly to the little 
mirror, for hers was the best gift of all — 
the constant image of the happy face of a 
little child. 

Phila Butler Bowman 


THE KING OF THE 
FOREST 


T HE trees of the forest were to choose a 
king to rule over them. 

“I must be king,” said the oak, 
“because I am the strongest tree. Animals 
and men are born to die, and still I live on, 
growing taller and stronger and larger. My 
wood is so tough and hard that I am used in 
building where strength is needed. I must 
be king.” 

“I must be king,” rustled the maple, 
“because I own the most kingly garments. 
Every autumn, when the oak’s leaves are 
fading into a dingy brown, I am robed as 
now in scarlet and gold. I am the only tree 
who can dress for the part. I must be king.” 

“I must be king,” wept the willow, “be- 
cause I am the most graceful tree. What 
other can sweep and bow and bend to the 
wind, and so keep that great enemy of trees 
in good humor? I only have the fine man- 
ners that befit royalty. I must be king.” 


130 


STORY TELLING TIME 


“One of our number must be king,” said 
the orchard trees, “because we bear fruit 
that can be eaten. What are strength and 
fine clothes and graceful manners compared 
to the power of giving to man and beast and 
bird luscious fruit? One of us must be 
king.” 

The Boy of the House was judge. He sat 
on a knoll covered with moss and listened, 
while each tree spoke for itself. Then as the 
oak stood strong and straight, and the maple 
rustled her beautiful garments, and the wil- 
low swayed gracefully, and the orchard trees 
dropped their fruit temptingly at his feet — 
then the Boy of the House stepped over to 
a group of evergreen trees that humbly 
listened to the discussion. 

“And have you evergreens nothing to 
say?” asked the Boy of the House. 

“ It is not for us to think of such an honor,” 
said the hemlock, and the cedar and spruce 
and fir and pine whispered, “We needle folk 
are too humble.” 

“Which are the trees that shelter the little 
winter birds?” said the Boy of the House. 
“What tree is stronger than the pine, that 
braves the winter storms? Is any dressed 


THE KING OF THE FOREST 131 

more beautifully than the spruce, when it 
dons its garments of glistening snow? Which 
is more graceful than the hemlock, as it 
bends and sways? And what trees but the 
evergreens give up their lives that for a few 
hours they may bear strange fruit — dolls 
and toys, candles and oranges — fruit that 
is hung there because of the love people have 
for one another? The Christmas Tree shall 
be king.” 

Frances Weld Danielson 


TURN ABOUT 

T HE Lady East, in rosy dress 
And floating scarf of gold, 

Looked out at dawn across the world, 
With haughty air and cold. 

At Lady West, in sober gray, 

Who faintly blushed and turned away. 

But evening came, and sunset West 
Was decked in brave attire — 

A crimson robe with spangled train, 

And jewels flashing fire. 

My Lady East, in dingy gray, 

Bowed to a queen at close of day. 

Elizabeth Thornton Turner 


THE VISITOR 

W HEN Some One comes our mother 
calls 

To nurse, and she finds us. 

And puts us in our starchiest things 
With ever so much fuss. 

She soaps us so, and washes us, 

And bothers with our hair, 

And blacks our shoes, and brushes us, 

And starts us down the stair. 

We go so very soft and still, 

And slow as slow can be. 

You would never think to hear us 
It was Jack and Gwen and me. 

And then we’re in the drawing-room, 

And She is sitting there, 

All made of black and shiny silk; 

And we stand round her chair. 

And then She asks, “How old are you?” 
And, “Do you go to school?” 


134 STORY TELLING TIME 

And, “Do you like your teacher?” 

And, “ Do you mind the rule? ” 

“How far are you in ’rithmetic?” 

“What is your teacher’s name?” 

And, “Do you go to Sunday-school?” 

She always asks the same. 

And then She takes her glasses off, 

And brushes down her dress, 

And sighs and says, “You’d better run 
And play awhile, I guess.” 

Oh, how we run ! Up in the barn 
We hide among the hay. 

And Jack says, “Let us not go down 
Until She goes away.” 

But when She goes we all rush out. 

You should see Gwen and me! 

We dance and sing, and Jack jumps round 
And hollers awfully. 

And mother, she comes out and says, 

“ Why, dears ! ” and looks at me, 

Because I’m old, then smiles and says, 
“Come, children, to your tea!” 

Anne Schutze 


THE KING’S JEWEL 


O NCE upon a time, a great many 
years ago, the king lost a wonderful 
white jewel from the front of his 
crown. No one knew when it had dropped, 
nor where to look for it, and although the 
king’s couriers were sent here and there 
through the kingdom to hunt for the missing 
gem, not one of them was able to find it. 

It had been a most beautiful jewel, as 
clear as a morning dewdrop, and as many 
sided as a prism. The king would not be 
content nor would he put on his crown 
again until he had as lovely a gem to replace 
the one which was lost. 

So he sent for his most trusted messenger, 
and he said to him, “Go with all speed and 
search the jewel shops of the kingdom. 
Look carefully in all the houses and visit 
the mines. Do not return until you have 
found a gem for my crown.” 

The messenger started on his quest, but 
for many months he looked in vain for a 


136 STORY TELLING TIME 

jewel. Not a gem shop did he miss nor a 
mine in all the kingdom, and he even crossed 
the seas to other lands. 

He searched the houses and found many 
jewels, but none as lovely as the one which 
the king had lost. It should be quite 
without flaw, he knew, and there would be 
a speck in one, and another would have a 
blemish in the cutting. 

At last the messenger knew that he must 
go home. He must tell the king that there 
were rubies and pearls and emeralds to be 
bought, but no stone as pure and clear as 
the one which had been lost. 

The messenger’s way lay through the 
streets of the city, and as he journeyed he 
came upon a child who sat by the roadside 
crying. 

“Why do you weep, little one?” asked 
the messenger. 

“Because I struck my brother,” said the 
child. “ He took my toy, but now he is gone 
away, and I do not want the toy any more.” 

“ But you are sorry, are you not, that you 
struck your brother?” asked the messenger. 

“Indeed I am,” said the child. 

He covered his face with his hands, and 


the king’s jewel 137 

as he did so, a tear fell through his little 
fingers to the roadside. 

The messenger looked, and there where the 
tear had fallen lay a wonderful jewel in the 
road, as clear as a dewdrop and as many 
sided as a prism. 

“I have found the jewel for the king’s 
crown!” cried the messenger, as he picked 
it up. 

Oh, it was a wonderful jewel! The king 
put it in his crown and wore it for all the 
rest of his life — the crystal that lay in the 
road where a little child’s sorry tear had 
fallen. 

Carolyn Sherwin Bailey 


HATS OFF 


O H, dear! Do stop crying, Johnny,” 
cried Margaret, as she tugged at 
the little sleeve, which would not 
go on over Johnny’s chubby hand. Johnny 
had just waked up from his nap as cross as 
could be, and was calling for mother. 

“Never mind, dear,” Margaret had said, 
“mother’s gone up town, but we’ll put on a 
clean apron and go to meet her.” 

But Johnny would not be comforted. He 
wanted the pink apron and not the blue 
one, and he did not want to be washed. 

At last, however, after what seemed to 
both a long time, Margaret said, “There! 
I guess we’re ready at last. Oh, no, not 
quite yet!” for taking Johnny’s hand, she 
noticed at the tip of each finger a little black 
rim. 

“Oh, dear me! Johnny does so hate to 
have his finger nails cleaned. I’m afraid 
he’ll act just dreadfully,” thought Margaret. 
“But I know what I’ll do. I’ll make a little 
game.” 


HATS OFF 139 

“Johnny,” she said, “see the little men 
all in a row.” 

“Where?” asked Johnny. 

“Why, right there on your two hands. 
Each has a little black hat on.” 

Johnny held his hands proudly in front of 
him. 

“Don’t you think they’d better take off 
their hats here in the house?” asked Mar- 
garet. 

Johnny laughed and held his hands very 
still while sister took off the little “hats,” 
then together they went to meet mother. 
They found her just around the corner. 

“See, mother!” cried Johnny, holding up 
a row of pink and white finger nails. “ Sister 
took the hats off all my little men.” 

When mother understood, she kissed the 
little men and then kissed Margaret. 

“I’m glad my little daughter has found 
that there may be easy ways of doing hard 
things,” she said. 


Nettie Joy Allen 


THE SLUMBER FOG 


T HE meadow in the twilight lies 
With hills on either hand, 

And from the sea the slumber fog 
Is drifting on the land. 

We never hear it as it comes, 

It has so soft a way; 

And babies, birds, and other things 
The slumber fog beneath its wings 
Will safely keep till day. 

0 little brother, come and watch — 

So tenderly it fills 
The valley where the river sleeps, 

The hollows of the hills! 

It wraps the lamplit houses round, 

That sit beside the bay; 

And all the weary twilight things 
The slumber fog beneath its wings 
Will safely fold away. 

Miriam Clark Potter 


MARY’S LETTER 


M ANY little girls like me 
Cannot say their ABC; 

So I’m far ahead of them, 

For I know ’way up to M. 

All the letters I can make, 

Every one without mistake, 

For I know just how they look, 

When I see them in my book. 

M I like the best of all. 

So I’ve made one very tall, 

For this letter, don’t you see, 

Stands for Mother and for Me. 

And it stands for Father dear, 

Though you think that rather queer. 
Since you don’t see how it can, 

I’ll just tell you — M’s for Man! 

Blanche Elizabeth Wade 


WHEN NED VISITED HIS 
GRANDMOTHER 



ITTLE Edward Wilkerforce McKay 


was going on a journey. It seemed 


-■ — * like a very long journey to Edward 
Wilkerforce McKay, or little Ned, as he was 
commonly called. The fact of the matter 
was that Ned was walking down the road to 
his grandmother’s house, and he was going 
alone, and he had never gone alone to visit 
his grandmother before. He was going to 
show her his new red cart that father had 
brought him from the city. 

“Mother, I’d like to take grandmother 
something in my little red cart. What shall 
I take her? ” asked Ned. 

Ned’s mother thought a while and then 
she said, “Cookies, I guess. Take her two 
of these I have just cooked for her tea.” 

“That will be the very thing, and I’ll take 
her my apple, too,” answered Ned. 

So mother tied a piece of white paper 


NED VISITS GRANDMOTHER 143 

round the cookies with pink string, and Ned 
tied a piece of white paper round the apple 
with pink string. Then he put both in his 
little red cart, and off he went. 

After aiwhile he came to a wee little barn. 
A little white hen was standing at the door 
of the barn. She saw Ned and his little cart 
coming down the road. She stepped out to 
meet him. She went right up to the little 
red cart and smelled the cookies and the 
apple. 

“Oh, no, little white hen, you can’t have 
any of the cookies or the apple, for I’m 
taking them to my grandmother! But if 
you like to follow on behind, perhaps grand- 
mother will let you have some of the crumbs 
that are left from the cookies and apple,” 
said Ned. 

So the little white hen followed on behind. 

They had not gone far before they came to 
a house right by the side of the road. Lying 
on the doorstep was a little gray kitten. 
The gray kitten opened its sleepy eyes and 
saw Ned and his red cart, followed by the 
little white hen, coming down the road. 
The kitten got up from the doorstep and 
went out to meet them. She smelled the 


144 STORY TELLING TIME 

cookies and the apple in the cart and went 
right up to it and began to sniff. 

Ned said, “Oh, no, little gray kitten, you 
can’t have any of the cookies or the apple, 
for I’m taking them to my grandmother! 
But if you like to follow on behind, perhaps 
grandmother will let you have some of the 
crumbs that are left from the cookies.” So 
the gray kitten followed on behind Ned, the 
little red cart, and the little white hen. 

It wasn’t long until they came to a field 
by the roadside. And in the field was a little 
fat pig. The pig spied Ned and his cart, so 
he slipped under the fence and went out to 
meet them. He smelled the cookies and the 
apple. He put his snout right into the little 
red cart. 

Ned said, “ Oh, no, little fat pig, you can’t 
have any of the cookies or the apple, for I’m 
taking them to my grandmother. But if you 
like to follow on behind, perhaps grand- 
mother will let you have some of the crumbs 
that are left from the cookies and apple.” 

So the little fat pig followed on behind 
Ned, the little red cart, the little white hen, 
and the little gray kitten. 

At last Ned caught sight of his grand- 



SO THE LITTLE FAT PIG FOLLOWED ON 

BEHIND 



NED VISITS GRANDMOTHER 145 

mother’s house. But just then a little brown 
robin spied them on the road. Down he flew 
from his tree and peeped right into the little 
red cart. He soon found out there was 
something good to eat there and was just 
thinking of pecking through the white paper 
when Ned said: 

“Oh, no, little brown robin, you can’t 
have any of the cookies or the apple, for I’m 
taking them to my grandmother! But if 
you like to follow on behind, perhaps grand- 
mother will let you have some of the crumbs 
that are left from the cookies and apple.” 

So the little brown robin followed on be- 
hind Ned, the little red cart, the little white 
hen, the little gray kitten, and the little fat 
Pig- 

Grandmother happened to be looking out 
of the window. All at once she spied the 
queer procession coming down the road. 
She looked and looked. She took off her 
glasses and rubbed them, put them on and 
looked again. 

“ It’s little Ned sure as can be — bless his 
heart! But what’s all that coming behind 
him?” she said. 

Then she hurried out to the door and 


146 STORY TELLING TIME 

saw coming through her gate little Ned, 
and behind him the little red cart, and be- 
hind the little red cart the little white hen, 
and behind the little white hen the little 
gray kitten, and behind the little gray kitten 
the little fat pig, and behind the little fat pig 
the little brown robin. 

“Well, did I ever, did I ever!” was all 
grandmother could say, for she was so sur- 
prised. 

Ned told her his story right away. And 
grandmother didn’t wait till it came tea-time 
but sat right down on the doorstep and ate 
the cookies and ate the apple. And she left 
quite big crumbs — some for the chicken, 
some for the kitten, some for the pig, and 
some for the robin. And when they were 
eating the crumbs, she called Ned into the 
house and gave him a bowl of cornmeal 
mixed with water for the little white hen, a 
saucer of milk for the little gray kitten, a 
pan of milk for the little fat pig, a handful 
of bread crumbs for the little brown robin, 
and a saucer of strawberries and cream for 
himself. So they had a chicken-kitten-pig- 
robin-boy picnic out in grandmother’s back 
yard. 


NED VISITS GRANDMOTHER 147 

And when it was over Ned kissed his 
grandmother and said, “We’ve had just a 
lovely time. Thank you so much.” 

And grandmother said, “I’ve had just a 
lovely time, too. Thank you so much,” and 
kissed him good-bye. 

Then he opened the gate and passed 
through with his little red cart. Behind 
him followed the little white hen, behind the 
hen followed the little gray kitten, and be- 
hind the gray kitten followed the little fat 
pig, and behind the pig followed the little 
brown robin. 

Just as they were going through the gate 
the chicken said, “Cluck! Cluck!” the kitten 
said, “Meow! Meow!” the pig gave two big 
grunts, and the robin said, “Chirp! Chirp!” 

And grandmother answered and said, 
“ Don’t mention it, friends. You were quite 
welcome — quite welcome.” 

Marion Wathen 


THE CHILD IN SPRING 


I WAS happy, so happy this morning, 
These things made me happy today: 
A blue little pool in the meadow, 

A blackbird with red in his wings, 

Some tiny green buds on the lilacs, 

The sun shining yellow on things. 

I was happy, so happy this morning, 

When I ran outdoors early to play. 

Emily Rose Burt 


AT CANDLE-LIGHT 


A T candle-light, at candle-light 
The children all come home. 

For when the sun is in the west 
Is not the time to roam. 

Now supper comes, and story time, 

And then a pillow fight. 

The happiest time of all the day 
Is had at candle-light. 

At candle-light, at candle-light 
You see the children go 
All trooping up the stairs to bed, 

In gowns as white as snow; 

And soon they’re lost in dreamless sleep. 
Heads on soft pillows pressed. 

And quiet stars their watches keep, 

While all the children rest. 

Annie Willis McCullough 


THE 

INVALID’S COMPLAINT 


T HIS house is slow and still and dry 
In every way, 

Until I’m sick and have to lie 
Up-stairs all day, 

When through the rooms and on the lawn 
You never heard such goings-on! 

Then Bruno barks as if he’d found 
A lion’s trail. 

When I am well he pokes around 
And wags his tail. 

It almost seems as if he knew 
The tantalizing thing to do. 

Then baby gets a whiff of broth 
Somewhere close by, 

And pulls up by the tablecloth 
And makes things fly. 

He always waits till I’m in bed 
To stick fly-paper on his head. 


THE INVALID’S COMPLAINT 151 

That’s just the way — they slam the door 
And call “Look out!” 

And make great rushes ’cross the floor, 

And scream about. 

I almost fancy where I lie 
The circus must be going by. 

And when the great excitement’s done 
And things grow still, 

I rack my brains about the fuss, 

When I am ill. 

Yet when I speak of noises queer 
They only ask, “What noises, dear?” 

Elizabeth Thornton Turner 


LITTLE GRETCHEN’S 
LILY 


I T was in the middle of the summer and 
very hot. The people of a little village 
were thirsty. The stream from which 
they got water was so small that it had dried 
up in the heat. When it rained they caught 
the raindrops in pails and pans. The men 
and boys went to the nearest village and 
brought back what water they could carry. 

But still the people were thirsty. There 
was not water enough for all. Fathers 
worked with eyes burning with heat and with 
dry lips. Mothers gave their children only 
a few drops of the precious water. People 
grew sick with fever. Animals became too 
weak to work or play. Birds stopped sing- 
ing. Gardens dried up. Flowers withered. 

Little Gretchen, the lame child, grew white 
and thin. To be sure, everybody who had 
any water offered some to little Gretchen, 
for she was the pet of the village. But little 


LITTLE GRETCHEN’S LILY 153 

Gretchen would usually find an old person 
or a baby or an animal or a bird that she 
thought needed it more. And each day she 
saved a few drops to pour on her lily. The 
lily was the only flower left in the village. 

And then one day there came to the 
village a man with a wagon full of water 
in bottles. He sold this water to the people. 
He took all their money for it — big pieces 
of gold for small bottles of water. He came 
again, but the people’s gold was gone. So 
he took their clothes. He came again, and 
they had no clothes left but the poor ones 
they wore. So he took their furniture. 

He came again, but there were left only 
some poor chairs and here and there a bed. 
So he took anything he could lay his hands 
on — the bell from the church tower which 
called the people to prayer, the gold wedding 
rings from the mothers, and he would have 
taken little Gretchen’s crutch, only the 
people cried, “Not that!” and he would have 
taken her lily, only Gretchen herself said, 
“The lily cannot go!” 

And then came a man on horseback, riding 
fast and furious and waving in his hand a 
white paper. 


154 STORY TELLING TIME 

“A message from the king!” he cried. 
“The king is turning a mountain stream out 
of its bed so that it shall flow through the 
village. The king has hundreds of men at 
work upon it.” 

But the people did not shout or smile. 
“We have nothing to pay for the water!” 
they said sadly, and went into their bare 
houses and cried. Little Gretchen let her 
tears fall upon her lily, hoping they would 
water it. 

Soon the dry bed of the stream began to 
be filled with water. The mountain stream 
had been turned into it. The water gurgled 
and splashed. It looked fresh and cool. 
But not a person in the village dared to drink 
it, for they had no money or clothes or 
furniture to pay for it. They even drove 
the animals away from the stream, for fear 
the king should kill them for drinking the 
precious water. Only little Gretchen stole 
down and got a few drops for her lily, which 
was hanging its white head. 

And then the king himself came to the 
village — the king, in splendid clothes and 
flashing jewels. And he cried, “Drink, my 
people, and live! The water is free to all. 


LITTLE GRETCHEN* S LILY 155 

Take it without price. It is yours, my 
people, freely yours!” 

Oh, how the people hurried then to the 
bank of the stream, with pitchers and cups 
and pails! How they hastened to take it 
to those too sick and old to get it for them- 
selves! How the children laughed as they 
drank! How the mothers cried for joy! 
How eagerly the animals lapped it up ! How 
the birds bathed themselves in the tiny 
pools and flew away singing ! And how little 
Gretchen flooded her lily till it raised its 
drooping head! Then she broke its stalk 
and handed it to the king. 

“My lily and my love for the gift of 
water,” Gretchen said. 

Frances Weld Danielson 


ROBERT’S SURPRISE 


E VER since Robert could remember 
he had wanted to go across the big 
river bridge and climb the hill on the 
other side. 

“When you are five years old, Robert, I 
will take you,” Uncle Ben said, and Robert 
could hardly wait for the time to come. 

His fifth birthday came at last, and early 
in the morning Uncle Ben appeared. He 
carried a box of lunch and told Robert that 
he had his birthday present in his pocket. 

“ It doesn’t seem as if this were really me,” 
Robert declared, when at last they had 
crossed the bridge and began to climb the 
hill. 

It was a hard climb for a little fellow, and 
Robert was so busy keeping up with Uncle 
Ben that he did not stop to look behind him. 
At last they reached the place where they 
were to rest and eat their lunch. Robert sat 
down on a stone and looked at the valley 
below. 

“Oh, see!” he cried, “there is the river. 


Robert’s surprise 157 

and oh, Uncle Ben, do look at that big white 
house with the trees around it! I wish I 
lived there.” 

“Do you?” asked Uncle Ben, with a queer 
smile. 

They ate their lunch and then Uncle Ben 
took something out of his pocket. 

“Here is your birthday present,” he said. 

Robert looked curiously at the long black 
object his uncle held. 

“It is a small telescope,” said Uncle Ben. 
“Shut one eye and look through it at the 
river.” 

Robert did so. “Why, it looks as if it 
were right here on the hill ! ” he cried. “ Let 
me look at the white house. Why!” 

Robert was too astonished to say anything 
more. He recognized his own mother stand- 
ing on the porch of the white house. 

Uncle Ben laughed. “You did not know 
you had such a beautiful home, did you?” 
he asked. 

“Is that really my house?” Robert ex- 
claimed. He looked again. “It is,” he 
said, “and oh. Uncle Ben, it’s so pretty I 
want to go right back there!” 

Annie Louise Berray 


WHY 


I WONDER why they call it “spring.” 

Is it because the birds are singing? 

Is it because, on every hand, 

We see the grass and flowers springing? 

Perhaps so, but I like to think 
It’s ’cause my heart feels just like singing 
At all the beauty everywhere, 

And, as I walk, I feel like springing. 

Annie Willis McCullough 


A PLEASANT COUNTRY 


I ’D like to go to London, 

To see the king and queen;” 
“I’d like to go to Egypt 
Where crocodiles are seen;” 

“I’d like to go to Scotland 
And meet a Highland clan,” 

Said Dick and Ned and Johnny. 

And then they all began 
To question little Enid, 

Just five years old that day. 

“I’d like to go to Lapland,” 

She said. “I’d like to stay 
Till I’d seen all the children — 

The little girls and p’r’aps 
The boys, if they were tired — 

Up in their mothers’ laps.” 

Elizabeth Lincoln Gould 


THE CROWN 



IHERE was, once upon a time, a little 


girl who wanted a crown. She 


thought that if she had a pretty crown 
to set on top of her yellow curls she would be 
a princess. 

“Crowns really make little girls into 
princesses,” said this little girl, and she 
wanted to be a princess more than anything 
else in the world. 

So the little girl went out to her garden 
looking for something which would serve her 
for a crown, and the first thing that she saw 
was the rose-bush all covered with garlands 
of pretty pink roses. 

“I will make a crown of these roses,” cried 
the little girl. “It will surely make me 
look like a princess.” 

She stripped off the pink roses, not at all 
carefully, and she wove them into a crown 
which really looked very pretty on top of 
her hair. Then she sat down by the foun- 
tain to look at herself in the clear water. 


THE CROWN 


161 


It was a very warm day and as the little 
girl sat by the fountain the roses in her 
crown began to fade. They faded very 
quickly, and grew brown and shriveled and 
wilted. As she watched them in the mirror 
of the water, the petals began to fall and 
then the crown was not pretty any longer. 

“ I must find something else for my crown,” 
cried the little girl, and she looked in the gar- 
den beds for the most beautiful flowers that 
grew there. At last she saw the patch of 
blue forget-me-nots, so she picked great 
bunches of them, and she plaited them to- 
gether to make herself an even more beauti- 
ful crown than the first one. These flowers 
grew near the garden fence and as the little 
girl was picking them, a beggar child peered 
through the fence, watching her. 

When the crown of flowers was finished, 
the beggar child reached out her arms, cry- 
ing, “May I have a flower? Please give me 
a flower.” 

But the little girl was so busy arranging 
her curls and the flower crown on top of the 
curls that she paid not the slightest heed. 

Again the beggar child cried, “Please give 
me a flower.” 


162 STORY TELLING TIME 

This time the little girl heard, but she 
tossed her head and said, “You shall have 
no flowers. I want them all, every one of 
them.” 

As she spoke, the little girl put her hand 
to her head, but, alas, the forget-me-nots 
were no longer fresh. Like the roses, they 
had withered and quite dried up. 

“I don’t believe I shall ever be able to 
wear a crown,” said the little girl. “I think 
I will give up trying to make one.” 

So she went in the house and sang to the 
baby who was crying, and then she rocked 
him until he fell into the sweetest of naps. 
She smoothed her mother’s head because it 
ached, and she read a story from her story- 
book to her grandmother, and then she went 
out-of-doors again to the garden. 

Some of the flowers were drooping their 
heads, so she watered these. She pulled 
away the weeds that choked other flowers, 
and toward the end of the afternoon she 
saw the same beggar child looking in at her 
through the garden fence. 

“Would you like some roses?” asked the 
little girl politely, reaching out some beauti- 
ful pink ones through the gate. 


THE CROWN 163 

“Oh, thank you! 5 cried the beggar child. 

Then she looked at the little girl. 

“Why, you have a crown upon your 
head,” she said in wonder. 

“I don’t feel it,” said the little girl, 
putting her hand up to her head. 

But the crown was really there, a glittering 
crown of sunshine lying in a great gold circle 
on the little girl’s yellow curls. 

Carolyn Sherwin Bailey 


THE SLEEP FACES 


W IEN I am going off to sleep, 

A crowd of faces comes to me, 
And all the people of the day 
Steal softly up where I can see. 


There’s nursie, with her muslin cap, 

The cross old man that stopped to drink, 
The grocer and the big schoolboy — 

More faces than you’d ever think. 


Sometimes the faces are unkind 
Or wink at me, or frown or pout. 

Then mother comes to say good night, 
And her face puts the others out. 

Phila Butler Bowman 


THE MOON 


A T night the moon is cold and still. 

I see it from my window wide. 

It shines like silver on our hill, 
And lights up all the world beside. 

I wonder if in Dutch-land, too, 

Where all the boats and windmills grow, 
And everything you see is blue , 

The moon lights up the water so. 

Do you suppose in gay Japan 
A little girl in her bright gown, 

Like those that live upon my fan. 

Can see my dear moon shining down? 

Where China folks our dishes make, 
Perhaps each time the moon comes up, 
And China children are awake, 

They think it is a bowl or cup. 

But I would rather watch it here, 

And lean upon my window-sill. 

I’m sure there’s no place anywhere 
It shines so bright as on our hill. 

Marion Mallette Thornton 


THE VOICES BENNIE 
HEARD 


O NCE there was a boy named Bennie, 
and there were some things he liked 
to do and some things he did not 
like to do. The things he especially liked 
to do were to eat food that was sweet, such 
as frosted cake and bread and molasses, 
and play any game that was played outdoors 
— “ Indian,” or hide-and-go-seek, or storm- 
ing a fort with snowballs — and to sit up 
later than his bedtime, which came at seven. 
The things he especially did not like to do 
were to eat porridge and to stay in the house 
and to go to bed and to get up. It was 
funny how he hated to get into his bed and 
how he hated to get out of it. 

One day in the winter the snow lay deep 
and white and smooth all over the ground. 
It was just the sort of snow for making a fort 
and snowballs and for sliding on. It seemed 
to twinkle and wink at Bennie and call. 


VOICES BENNIE HEARD 167 

“Come out and have some fun! Come!” 
But there was Bennie with a hard cold, 
looking wistfully from the warm side of the 
window. 

He really could not bear to look very long, 
so he wandered into the pantry. And what 
do you suppose he found there? Why, a 
cake so covered with white frosting that 
he could not see the cake beneath, and 
as his mouth watered for it, mother came 
with a bowl of the porridge he so much 
hated. 

And then the telephone bell rang — br-r-r- 
r-r-r-rl It brought the bad news that grand- 
mother was sick and needed mother. So 
away hurried mother, and for the hour 
before father came Bennie was alone. All 
through that hour he had a terrible time 
between the things he liked to do and the 
things he did not like to do. The snow 
seemed to have a voice which called, “Slide 
on me!” The white-frosted cake seemed 
to have a voice, too, which called, “Eat 
me!” 

Now it is pretty hard for a boy to be left 
alone with white snow sparkling outside and 
white frosting sparkling inside, and no 


168 STORY TELLING TIME 

mother to say, “You must not!” So I say 
it was a brave boy whom father found, when 
he came home, eating porridge, with his 
back toward the window. 

Perhaps you think that now all Bennie’s 
hard time was over. No, it was not, for 
seven o’clock came and father never noticed. 
Father’s head was behind his newspaper, 
and Bennie knew well that when father’s 
head was once behind his newspaper, he 
never thought about a boy’s bedtime or any- 
thing but just the news. Here was a chance 
to sit up later than he had ever sat up in all 
his life! And would you believe it, the 
clock had a voice! It struck seven and 
each stroke seemed to be a word, like this: 
“ Stay-up-stay-up-stay-up-stay-up ! ” 

It was cozy down-stairs by the lamp. 
It was very far away up-stairs, very far 
indeed, when father with his head behind his 
newspaper was the only other person in the 
house. 

Five minutes past seven, and Bennie still 
sat up. 

Ten minutes past, and Bennie still sat 
up. 

A quarter past, and Bennie jumped out of 


VOICES BENNIE HEARD 169 

his chair and said, “ It’s after bedtime, father. 
Will you please help undress me?” 

And now what do you suppose the clock 
seemed to say, as it ticked on and on? 
“Brave-boy-brave-boy-brave-boy ! ” 

Frances Weld Danielson 


AT BEDTIME 

W HEN half-past six is nearly here — 
That’s sleepy-time, you know — 
I kneel to say my evening prayer, 
Before to bed I go. 

I kneel and clasp my hands awhile, 

And then, when I am through, 

I find the dear old nursery clock 
Is clasping its hands, too! 

Elizabeth Thornton Turner 






I > 


OCT 19 1912 




















































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